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DONOMXJE:,MKNNE:bERRY & CO., Bublislners, 

4 oy~ 42 S Dearborn St.^ CHICAGO^ 




THE MADONNA OF PASS CHRISTIAN 

12mo, 491 Pages, Illustrated. Paper Cover. 

A little Catholic Church among- the evergreen oaks of a country village on tb 
coast < .f the “ Mexican Gulf ” contains one of the several Madonnas of Pass Christian 
One Sunday morning a tired-out traveler from Boston falls asleep there, and dream 
of the Virgin who stands before him near the altar. Her features and expressioi 
somewhat resemble those of a woman whom he has loved and who has died. In thi 
changes of liis dream, her place is taken by a celestial sweetiieart. The face of thi 
vision appears to him again afterwards, in the midst of the Carnival Ball at Ne\ 
Orleans in the countenance of a Madonna-like young dancer. Although she i 
beautiful, an heiress, and from Chicago, the Bostonian discovers her to be as unhappy 
as the Mater Dolorosa, and as wanting in soul as the holy image of Mary, or as th 
pagan Galatea which the sculptor, Pygmalion, set up and loved. The enthrallmen 
of the human statue is also as petrified and stony as marble, and is induced by he 
love, who is an atheist, a seducer and a lawyer from Kansas City. This alluring com 
pound has the desires of Faust and the aaroitness of Mephistopheles, and he clever!' 
argues her into a skepticism which disbelieves all but in making the most of physica 
life and sensual pleasure. 

One night this heroine watches for the phantom boat and its ghostly crew— said t 
haunt the coast of Pass Chnstian. As she stands under a desolate tree, waiting fo 
goblins, a murderous attack is made upon her by an escaped lunatic. Fortune bring 
the Bostonian to her rescue. A friendship between them begins. The one is draw; 
by gratitude, the other by his psychological interest in the creation of a mind. Lik 
Plato, in Socratic dialogues, he shows her the eternal life of the spirit, and graduall 
leads her out of the temple of Venus, away from the idols of sensualism and material 
ism, and fixes her second sight upon a view of the unseen world. 

The subject of the novel is the immortality of the soul, and all other consideration 
have been subordinated to the development of the theme. This has been the mai 
effort of the author. His argument is founded not on an assumption that the historian 
and essayists of the Bible were “ inspired,” but on circumstantial evidence. The onl 
testimony adduced is what would be admitted by a law court, in the proof of any othe 
fact. The demonstration proceeds from self-evident truths, confesses the claims c 
Renan, Strauss, Darwin, and of the infidel schools of thought, but avoids their force b 
a strategic disposition of proofs; axioms, the testimony of nature, history, and th 
visible universe constitute the basis of the author’s reasoning, and on this foundatio 
a superstructure is reared, with support gathered from all sources, and secured by 
chain of proofs that appears irrefragible. Nothing has been disregarded whos 
omission would leave the demonstration incomplete, and finally the erring Madonna ; 
led to say 

“ Love seems the music of the universe. With the keynote of divine love all spect 
lation concerning our destiny must harmonize. Otherwise, Darwin’s song (like othe 
melodies very pretty when listened to by themselves— but which become djscordar 
when introduced into one of Beethoven’s divine symphonies) and Comte’s and Ingei 
soil’s and Spencer’s ballads— all jar harshly when they approach within hearing c 
God’s own symphony that shall roll on, invisible music, when all things visible hav 
passed away. ” 

Many of those whom the myths and some incredible stories of Biblical writei 
have left dejected and hopeless of any life beyond this, may be cheered by the solac 
and comfort which is off -red by this book, into believing, like Cardinal Newman, thj 
” with the morn the angel faces will smile, whom we have loved and lost awhile.” 

The background of this inquiry into death and the resurrection is formed by th 
moss-hung oaks and woody cypresses which line the Southern Gulf. Like light in dart 
ness are the sunny orange groves, the flashe ^ of blue water, and the bright colors an 
motion of the New Orleans carnival. Into the midst of the philosophy stalks a near< 
Ward McAllister by name, who claims that he is the illegitimate descendant of a Ne^ 
York gentleman, and whose diction is so extravagant that he may well seem the dis 
ciple, if not the son, of the social sage of Goose Creek. Mrs. Rakeless, Mrs. Ribol 
and Mrs. Tweaser from New York, also gayly flutter amongst the stern theology o 
the dark pine forests of Pass Christian; with the atheist lawyer and lover they form , 
witches’ frolic— an eerie band that is shattered at last by murder and lightning. ! 

This novel is an answer to “ Robert Elsmere.” It is also the only work in existenc ' 
which fully describes the New Orleans carnivals. i 

The drowning, burial and rising again of the heroine’s second lover ends well thi I 
“Tale of the Resurrection.” 

For sale by all Booksellers and Ne-wsdealers, or -will be sent by th 
Publishers on receipt of price. 

DONOHUE, HENNEBERRY & CO., Publishers, Chicago 


/niCMELlNE 


BY 


HECTOR MALOT. 





TRANSLATED FROA\ THE FRENCH 

BY 

y Hettie E. A\iller, 

■ V'' 





CHICAGO 

DONOHUE, MENNEBERRY & CO. 
1891 . 











\ 


COPYRIGHTED, 189I, 
BY 



DONOHUE, HENNEBERRY & CO. 





V ^ \ A. 


DONOHUE & HENNEBERRY, 


PRINTERS AND BINDERS 

- CHICAGO. ^ 


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. a*a^ “fer.-' 



MICHELINE 


PART FIRST 

I 

To the right on the road from Pont PEveque to 
Trouville adjacent to the forest of Touques stands a 
castle, half Gothic, half in the style of the Renais- 
sance, whose towers and bell-turrets of white stone 
stand out in bold relief against the dark verdure of 
the woods. 

It is the castle of Hopsore, built twenty years 
since by a physician, a Doctor Beaumoussel, who, 
after having made a fortune by using to his ad- 
vantage an already-discovered remedy, wished to enjoy 
his wealth in his “native village,” as he put it, 
though “native” was not strictly true, the slight devia- 
tion from the truth being attributable to vanity. 

In this way he thought to couple his name with that 
of Vauquelin, the chemist, born several leagues dis- 
tant, at a place called Saint Andrd d’Hdrbertot. 

“Vauquelin and I am from the same place,” he 
would say to his friends in Paris, not daring to add 
in spite of his desire to do so: “And of the same 
profession.” For, repudiated by the physicians who 

5 


6 


MICHELINE 


looked upon him as a quack, he would have been de- 
lighted to cling to the chemists. Indeed, the connec- 
tion between him and Vauquelin ended here: while 
the latter returned to his native village to rest in 
its green cemetery beneath a marble slab, Beau- 
moussel returned to take possession of a “princely 
castle,” as the guides called it. 

It was in London that the idea occurred to him to 
build a castle. Becoming infected by the patriotic 
enthusiasm of the English for the House of Parlia- 
ment, and believing as they told him that that immense 
structure combined within itself all the wonders of 
the town halls of Louvain, Ypres and Brussels, he 
determined that when he built a castle he would select 
that style. 

As a French architect could not conceive anything 
so beautiful, he chose a pupil of the Irishman, Charles 
Barry, and after buying the land he delivered it up 
to his English architect. 

In the course of time a building was erected 
which became one of the curiosities of the surrounding 
country. 

Before it in the center of an undulating lawn 
stretched a large sheet of water formed by a rivulet 
descending from the hills. Behind it lay the park 
with its fine beeches and venerable oaks formerly com- 
prised in the forest, while scattered about here and 
there on the grounds were stables, barns, farm- 
buildings and peasants’ cottages. 

Of all Beaumoussel’s inventions, the castle was 
the most successful: how was it possible to dis- 


MICHELINE 


7 


believe in the excellency of a remedy which had 
brought in such a fortune! 

Beaumoussel was not as difficult to suit with regard 
to a wife, as he was with regard to a house. He 
required that she be pretty, but she need not neces- 
sarily be an English woman, nor of an original, pecul- 
iar type. 

Sophie Patonillet, a French woman, was what 
might bp called handsome; her form was command- 
ing, hcir features were regular, she had a complexion 
a la Rubens, and a low, broad forehead. Although 
herself not of high rank, she had always fondly hoped 
that she would make a marriage which would gratify 
her ambition, and when at twenty-five she accepted 
Beaumoussel, who was thirty years her senior, it was 
because he offered her at least a fortune. 

Longing for wealth, she had fancied that money 
was everything: having obtained it, she found that 
it was comparatively of no value. How much humili- 
ation had she been subjected to notwithstanding that 
wealth! How many times had the chairs ranged 
around the table in her luxurious dining room on 
Avenue de Tlmperatrice, remained unoccupied, the 
invited guests not caring to come, and not even taking 
the trouble to send an excuse ! 

People ridiculed the name ot Beaumoussel. It 
met her eye in all places: on the walls, on the fourth 
page of the newspapers, on the asphalt sidewalk, 
in the city, in the village: 

Beaumoussel, Beaumoussel, Beware of imitations. 
Examine the stamp. 


8 


MICHELINE 


She could not step out of doors or open a news- 
paper without seeing those words. 

Death finally took pity upon her. After twelve 
years of conjugal bliss her husband died, and as he 
had loved her devotedly he constituted her his sole 
legatee. He had never caused her any pain during 
their married life. He was an excellent man, a kind 
and loving husband. The only thing that annoyed her 
was his name, and death could not do away with that. 
She was, after his demise, “Widow Beaumoussel, “ 
and the walls, the newspapers and the sidewalks still 
continued to cry: “Beaumoussel,” “Beaumoussel,” 
“Beware of imitations.” 

As she could not suppress those advertisements 
which were so profitable to her, she felt the necessity 
of changing her name. With a fortune like hers that 
should be easy, and as she was in a different position 
from the one she had occupied when a portionless 
girl, she would surely find a man whose title and 
rank she could share. 

The titled husband did not present himself, and time 
glided on, for the name of Beaumoussel was not ob- 
noxious to Madame alone. How many who were dis- 
posed to assume the matrimonial yoke when a wealthy, 
handsome widow was proposed to them, fled and would 
listen to no arguments when that particular widow was 
named. 

“Beaumoussel! Who is Beaumoussel? Beaumoussel, 
examine the stamp.” 

Those whom she would have liked did not like her; 
those who liked her, she did not like! As the years 


MICHELINE 


9 


passed on by, she grew stouter, gray hair appeared 
and forced her to resort to artificial dyes; her chin, 
which had been double for several years, threatened 
to become triple; her eyebrows and lashes required 
penciling, her lids bathing in green tea, her cheeks 
painting. 

Her pretensions diminished as her embonpoint 
increased; she was past forty. She had almost de- 
spaired", and began to believe that she would bear the 
execrable name of Beaumoussel until death, when 
at the age of forty-two she met a young musician of 
twenty-seven or eight, who was about to put upon 
the stage of the Opera Coinique his operetta, La 
Trompe des A/pes." If that young musician had only 
been the composer of the operetta, she would never 
have dreamed of marrying him: although she was dis- 
couraged and impatient she would have been too proud 
to enter into such an alliance; but he was not alone 
a musician, he figured in the Alnianach de Gotha as — 

Sobolewski, Catholics. Residence Paris. The Sobo- 
lewski family by its arms as well as by historical evi- 
dence proves its descent from the minister of Casimir 
the Great. This family has always retained the name 
of Sobolewski and has held the most responsible 
positions in the Republic. 

I. Senior branch of Prince Casimir: Casimir-Michel- 
Stanislas, Prince Sobolewski, born at Paris on the 
15th of May 1334, succeeded his father. 

BROTHERS AND SISTERS. 

« 

I. Prince Adame-Jo^eph, born in 1838. 


10 


MICHELINE 


2. Princess Carola-Isabelle, born in 1840. 

3. Prince Ladislas- Jerome, born in 1841. 

4. Princess Wanda-Clementine, born in 1842. 

5. Princess Hedwige-Eveline, born in 1845. 

6. Prince Witold, born in 1848. 

11 . Branch of Prince Michel: Michel-Andrd Sobo- 
lewski born 15th of March, 1856, succeeds his father, 
Prince Joseph, under guardianship. 

If historical evidence proved the nobility of the 
Sobolewski family, the financial condition of Prince 
Casimir, as well as that of his brothers and sisters, 
proved their impecuniosity at the time that Mme. 
Beaumoussel met the young musician. She consoled 
him so efficiently for the failure of his operetta, that 
three months later she exchanged the name of Beau- 
moussel for the title of Princess Sobolewski, and in 
the month of January following, she too figured in the 
“Gotha" as having been married on the 15th of Feb- 
ruary, 1861. 

Three years after that marriage, one July morning, 
a groom brought a saddle-horse to the castle-steps, 
and very soon after, the Prince in morning-dress ap- 
peared at the door. He was a tall, slender man, with 
fair hair and beard, delicately-cut features and an 
effeminately gentle countenance. He took several 
steps forward, and seemed to be examining the sky; 
there was no wind, there were no clouds, the sun was 
bright; the swans in the pond spread their wings in 
its warm glow. He smiled joyously at the prospect 
of so pleasant a day and was descending the steps when 
a lady in a white dress appeared. On perceiving her. 


MICHELINE 


11 


he paused, and then went to meet her. It was the 
Princess, who had risen to see her husband set out. 

“What," said she, “you are going out! We just came 
home yesterday." 

He smiled. 

“Then you no longer wish me to retain my slender- 
ness?" he asked in a half-cajoling, half-mocking tone. 

Yes, she did wish him to retain it, for the more 
slender he was, the less did she feel her stoutness, 
as she renewed her youth in his youthfulness. 

“You will return to lunch?" she asked timidly, 
almost fearfully. 

•“Undoubtedly." 

She watched him swing himself into the saddle; 
she admired him. 

“A pleasant ride! " she cried. 

But he was*already so far away that he could not 
hear what she said. Leaning upon the balustrade of 
the gallery, she watched him until he disappeared at 
a turning in the road. Entering the hall, she advanced 
toward a large mirror and for some time glanced at 
her reflection, then turning away with a gesture of 
discouragment she said to a servant: “Tell Regina, 

I want her to assist me at my toilette," 


n 


Marriage had been to Casimir Sobolewski virtually 
suicide, but at the time such was his position that he 
could only choose between two suicides: a bullet 
through his heart or matrimony. Had he been alone 
in the world, he would not have hesitated; putting a 
pistol in his pocket, he would have gone to Mont- 
morency, and, not far from the cemetery in which lay 
his father, his mother and his relatives, among a clus- 
ter of trees which he had examined more than once as 
he thought: that would be a charming spot in which 
to die! he would have killed himself! ^ 

That would have ended his misery, his humiliation, 
his disgrace! But he was not alone; he had brothers 
and sisters; miserable like himself, whom it was his 
duty, as the head of the family, to care for. 

When, after three or four years of hope, of struggles, 
he saw his opera on the point of being at length rep- 
resented, he fancied that trouble would be vanquished 
and he made great plans. 

It was true his operetta was only a short work, in 
which he had been obliged to curb his ambition with 
regard to the music; but such as it was it would show 
what its author was capable of, and above all what he 
could do had he a chance to develop. 

Le Chalet too was very short and it had established 
12 


MICHELINE 


13 


Adolphe Adames reputation. Why should not La 
Trompe des Alpes exercise the same influence upon his 
future? 

It was not simply owing to the fact of his leaving 
his score with the doorkeeper of the Opera Comique 
that it was accepted by the management. It was 
owing to the success which it had met in the draw- 
ing-rooms in which it had been represented. 

At first, the management, according to custom, did 
not want it at all. But, by reason of hearing repeat- 
ed by ministers, senators and deputies, personages of 
note in the political and social world: “Why do you 
not present Prince Sobolewski’s operetta? “a manager 
had given in, and, no longer able to retard the prom- 
ises, the realization of which he had so often deferred, 
he decided to rehearse it, furious with himself, the 
composer, and those who were interested in him and 
who supported him by their authority. 

Sobolewski was too shrewd, too thoroughly a Pole, 
not to observe it, but he was too venturesome to be 
rendered uneasy by it. The hostility was aimed at 
the man, not at his work; they bore him ill-will for 
having forced their doors; the success of the work, 
would make that of the man. Who could have doubted 
its success when so many people who were familiar 
with it had predicted it in the very beginning? 

The first representation was to him an important 
matter, much more so than it would have been to any- 
one else. 

Those who succeed by virtue of talent, of scheming 
or of chance, are indebted to no one, and in the for- 


14 


MICHELINE 


mation of their audience they need not trouble them* 
selves to give seats to those whom they have reason to 
believe are disposed to applaud them. Such was not 
the case with Casimir. He was indebted to a large 
number of people; to those who had applauded him; 
to those who had opened to him their drawing-rooms 
that he might give a portion of his operetta; to those 
who had supported him or who had boasted of having 
supported him, and the moment had come to discharge 
his debts. How could he with the few tickets given 
to him for the first representation? Too proud to pro- 
test against such treatment, or to ask for them, there 
was only one means left and that was to buy those 
which they did not give him. But in order to obtain 
them he must have money. 

For three months, seven of them, his brothers, his 
sisters and himself, had lived in their poor lodging 
on Rue Lamandd, at Batignolles, awaiting the day of 
the representation in order to satisfy their hunger, for 
they had exhausted all their resources. 

When Casimir returned home and laid upon the 
table the few tickets just given him, there was a gen- 
eral feeling of disappointment among his brothers and 
sisters, even little Witold who was only thirteen years 
old, had counted upon being present at that first rep- 
resentation. But that feeling did not last. 

“Do not worry about us,” said Adam, “we will go 
to the second.” 

“Or to the third,” added Carola. 

I did not doubt but that you would be satisfied; 
but you must make still another sacrifice. You must 


MICHELINE 


15 


assist me in obtaining the necessary money with 
which to secure seats to offer to our friends.” 

“I will see to-morrow if I cannot borrow a louis or 
two from my comrades in the studio, ” said Adam, who 
was studying painting and who had never in his 
life earned a sou. 

“I think I can get ten or fifteen francs,” said Lad- 
islas who was learning chemistry. 

The three girls who worked at home, now on 
embroidery, now on braiding, now on beading, ac- 
cording to the prevailing fashion, could not promise 
to obtain money from their connexion, but Hedwige 
rose and soon approached him with a gold cross 
enameled in blue. 

"Here is my godmother's cross,” said she, ”I 
would have liked to keep it ; you can take it to Mont 
de Pi^t^. ” 

“Perhaps I can borrow something at school to-mor- 
row,” said Witold, who was taking the course at the 
Polish school. 

But Casimir would not listen to that; although 
their need was so great, they must be prudent as to 
their loans and not apply to those to whom they 
would have to offer a seat for which they had paid. 

His brothers and he finally succeeded in collecting 
a sum almost sufficient to satisfy one half of those to 
whom Casimir was obliged to give a mark of his 
gratitude. 

Two hours before the curtain rose he ran all over 
Paris to distribute the tickets and to save the ex- 
pense of a commissionaire he could not pay. But 


16 


MICHELINE 


what did that matter! The applause will make him 
forget the fatigue and if up to that time the day had 
been hard, the next day would be warm and pleasant 
beneath the rays of glory. Why should not those 
rays fall upon him? Since he had heard his music 
performed by an orchestra, he had discovered all 
sorts of beauties in the score which he had not sus- 
pected when he wrote it. It was therefore without the 
least uneasiness that he heard the leader strike his 
baton upon the stand three times: he was sure of 
success and it was with the greatest confidence that 
he asked himself why it should not be a great, a very 
great success. 

If, when he had glanced at the audience, he had 
been less busy seeking for his patrons and friends, 
those for whom he had taken so much trouble and 
who had cost him so dearly, he might have noticed 
certain things which would have shaken his confi- 
dence. 

The audience was ill-natured as much because the 
friends of the management did not hesitate to say 
that they did not put any dependence in the piece, as 
because they bore Casimir Sobolewski ill-will for hav- 
ing succeeded in getting a representation. 

A stranger! 

He was not thirty years old ! 

He had good patronage! 

The public did not like that, and his confrires liked 
it still less. How many reasons there were for en- 
mity: his nationality, his title, his age, his musical 
education. After the overture, that enmity became 


MICHELJNE 


17 


manifest: a portion of the horns imUated the 
trumpet of the Alps in the valley of Grindelwaid 
which forcibly recalled Rossini’s Vaches. That 

is from William TelL That is from Chalet. 

When an audience is in such a mood, everything 
furnishes it with amusement. In the cavatine, the 
prima donna having taken a high note imperfectly, 
there was a general titter from the orchestra -chairs to 
the gallery. That mistake was followed by others 
which rendered the representation a failure. Those 
who had praised La Trompe des Alpes the most before- 
hand, were the first to condemn it afterward. 

What disappointment there was in the shabby 
lodgings in RueLamand^! It was at that time Mme. 
Beaumoussel offered Casimir her hand. She admired 
the opera written by a Prince; out of the seven repre- 
sentations which had been given in three months she 
had been present five times. How could he have 
been insensible to her consolation, her kind words, 
her attentions! It was true she was not young, 
and she was inclined to ernbonpoint. Her gait was, 
however, dignified, her face was beautiful, her 
hair was of a lovely blonde, her eyes were brilliant. 
All that he had heard of her, all that he had seen of 
her, did not alter the fact that she was kind and gen- 
erous; he would profit by that kindness and generos- 
ity. 

Adam could continue his studies, Ladislas his; 
Carola, who was a tall, and pretty girl, would find a 
husband later on; Wanda would probably marry, Hed- 
wige would no longer be forced to lose her health 


18 


MICHELiNE 


and goodlooks through overwork; and Witold he 
would educate in order that he might become a man. 
She could be no more than a mother to him and she 
might fulfill the same function toward his brothers 
and sisters. 

After three months of struggling, hesitation and 
contradictory resolutions, he entered into the bond 
of holy matrimony. 


I 


III 

As long as he was in the park he merely allowed 
his horse to trot, but upon entering the forest he 
broke into a gallop; the woodmen who were at work, 
hearing the sound of hoofs upon the hardened ground, 
raised their heads to see who was passing. 

There were very few who did not greet him, for 
though he had only lived in that district three years, 
he had made himself beloved. 

“Prince Casimir is not like Beaumoussel,” they 
said. Beaumoussel had never been kind to the labor- 
ers he employed, making them work hard, paying 
them as little as possible. 

Casimir, like the prince he was, put his hand in 
his pocket with as much ease as grace, and not an 
unfortunate applied to him without receiving help 
accompanied by kind words. 

His wife, who adored him, and who would have 
risked her life for a smile from his soft, blue eyes, 
had given him the charge of her fortune, and he used 
it to make others happy around him without ever 
asking himself if his generosity was not being abused. 

Although the forest of Touques, once one of the 
finest in the West, had been devastated by large clear- 
ings, it had still sections of woodland which one sees 
nowhere else. The trees were more erect and sounder 

19 


I 


20 MICHELWE 

than in the other forests, the sheltered spots more 
shady, the glades contained more abundant herbage, 
the old trees were more moss-grown. 

The Prince galloped beneath those trees, and al- 
though it had not rained for some time, the leafy 
vault of the beeches and elms had kept the ground 
so damp that it required a skilful hand to guide a 
horse over the slippery places. When the road merged 
into a plain, the trees grew less thickly, and through 
their branches came breezes laden with salt-air; at 
times, one could obtain a glimpse of the sea beyond 
the green meadows of Touques. 

Arrived at the spot at which the roads from Agnes- 
seau, Touques and Criqueboeuf met. Prince Casimir 
drew out his watch, and having glanced at it, he slack- 
ened his horse^s pace like one who has no occasion to 
hasten. 

A little farther on, between two large beeches which 
seemed to be there to mark the entrance, was a path 
which led through the underwood. He took that 
path, from time to time raising himself in his sad- 
dle in order to avoid the ferns whose high stalks 
caught in his stirrups. He soon reached the top of 
the ascent and found himself in a glade in which he 
perceived a young woman seated on the trunk of a 
tree under a white umbrella. Leaping from the sad- 
dle he ran toward her while she came to meet him, 
her face aglow, her eyes sparkling. 

“Germaine!” 

He clasped her in his arms. 

“Am I late?” he asked. 


MICHELINE 


21 


When she had disengaged herself from his embrace, 
she replied: “No, I am -early. I grew impatient.” 

He fastened his horse to a tree and they seated 
themselves several paces farther on, beneath a group 
of ash trees, the rustling of whose leaves stirred by 
the breeze reminded one of the murmur of rippling 
water; that was the only sound which disturbed the 
solitude of that verdant nest so suitable for the meet- 
ing-place of lovers. But almost as soon as he had 
seated himself, he rose, and kneeling before her and 
taking her hands in both of his, he said in a vibrat- 
ing voice: 

“Let me look at you.” 

She was twenty-four years old, above medium height, 
supple and graceful, with so dainty a waist and such 
slender hips that she seemed only just approaching 
womanhood. That extreme youthfulness was likewise 
reflected in her face. Her eyes were large and strik- 
ing; they were now gray, now blue, now green, now 
black, but always grave, often melancholy, dreamy 
or pensive; their mysterious charm lay not only in 
their beauty but in the thoughts they awakened and 
the impression they gave one of a mind which was 
not frivolous and trifling. 

Her mouth belied her eyes, for her lips which were 
as red as berries, were gay and sensual ; her nose was 
straight, somewhat thick and merged into a child- 
like forehead crowned by golden hair. 

“Am I not to see these pretty hands to-day?” he said. 
She wore gloves which reached to her elbow; he drew 


22 


MICHELINE 


them off, and the “pretty hands," as he called them 
in his enthusiasm, appeared. 

Her hand was indeed pretty; it was perfect in form 
and color; the fair flesh was veined with blue, the 
nails were turned up at the ends and of a rose-pink 
— it was a soft and nervous hand which of itself 
could make a woman appear pretty. When he raised 
his eyes to hers she drew it away gently. 

“Come, sit beside me," said she. 

He did as she desired. 

“Here I am," said he, encircling her with his arms, 
“ready to listen as long as you wish to talk." 

“Micheline stood the journey well," said she, “with- 
out fatigue, good-naturedly, without crying. To-day 
I walked on the shore with her for two hours; the 
sea does not frighten her at all. You will never guess 
the idea I had." 

“Tell it to me." 

“I wanted to bring her to you. Would you not have 
been happy to see your daughter and to embrace her?" 

“You would have attracted more attention with a 
child in 3^our arms than you would have on alighting 
from a carriage alone. It seems to me that it is not 
customary for a woman of your position to play the 
nurse thus." 

A sad smile passed over her radiant face. 

“At any rate," said she, “I hope that as far as the 
hotel is concerned, when we can no longer meet in the 
woods, you can come thither without much danger. 
They wanted to give me a room on the first floor. I 
took one, however, on the ground-floor, like I had at 


MICHELINE 


23 


Cauterets, number five, to the left of the garden, and 
on coming early in the morning or late at night you 
can come in without any one perceiving you, or at 
least without anyone knowing to whom you are com- 
ing.” 

"I will come to-morrow evening. 1 want to find 
out how you are situated and to see Micheline, I shall 
at least be less uneasy when I can approach you in 
spirit, fancy what you are doing and picture to myself 
your surroundings. Life in a room at a hotel must 
be very monotonous.” 

“The days are not long, I have Micheline; but the 
hours of the night are. I cannot sleep, and I ask 
myself as I so often do at other times, what will our 
future be, the future of our unfortunate child. That 
thought is a constant source of anguish to me. I do 
not know if there are women who can make light of 
their errors; if there are, I am not of that kind. I 
tremble because I feel my guilt and because, no matter 
how great the expiation, it cannot atone for the sin 
committed. We should suffer, we should be punished, 
we have merited it; though the temptation was great, 
we entered into it voluntarily, or at least heedlessly. 
But our daugther, Micheline? If we are separated 
in a few months what will become of her? In that 
thought alone there is sufficient to disturb a mother’s 
rest. ” 

“A great deal might happen in a few months. We 
shall meet oftener and with less difficulty than I 
dared hope for; my sister, Carola, is coming to Hop- 
sore for several weeks with her betrothed, and that 


24 


MICHELINE 


will give me more freedom and more opportunities to 
go out than we ever anticipated. When we can meet 
so often, should we doubt our good-fortune?” 

He clasped her in his arms. 


He perceived a young woman seated on the trunk of a tree. — Pa^e 20. 



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IV 


The preceding year, Princess Sobolewski, suffering 
from bronchitis, had been sent to Cauteretsj she 
stopped at the Hotel de France, the only one at that 
time fit to receive a person of her rank. It was there 
that the Prince, who had accompanied her, became 
acquainted with Germaine. 

The room occupied by the Prince and Princess was 
on the ground-floor overlooking the small garden 
around which were the various hotel buildings. 

The day after his arrival, on looking out of his 
window in the morning the Prince saw at a window 
opposite his and also on the ground-floor, a young 
woman drawing on her gloves preparatory to going 
out. Attracted by her beauty, by the charm of her 
face, by the brilliancy of her eyes, by the elegance of 
her form, he watched her with an attention which he 
no longer accorded to women. For, since his mar- 
riage, women had been nothing to him; he had resolved, 
partly from principle, partly from a sense of duty, to 
remain faithful to her whom he had married. 

Tender and affectionate as she was to him, full of 
solicitude, attention, her only thought being to make 
him happy, constantly trying to give him pleasure, 
did she not deserve that he should be kind to her, 
^nd not torment her by jealousy? 

25 


26 


MICHELINE 


One could live without love, and if it was impossible 
for him to return the affection lavished upon him by 
his wife, he should at least not cherish such senti- 
ments toward another. That seemed easy to him. 
At any rate, it had been so since his marriage; he 
had never responded to the advances of those who 
sought to shake his fidelity, and often even he had 
jested about it with his wife. 

But that woman at the window had not attracted 
him by advances nor coquetry, but solely by the in- 
fluence of her beauty. He remained at the window 
while she continued to draw on her gloves, her head 
slightly bent, not seeming to notice the examination 
to which she was subjected. When she had finished, 
she turned and he heard her call: “Eugenie!” 

Her voice was sonorous and sweet at the same 
time, well-pitched without any accent, which indicated 
the French woman. 

Soon after, he saw her cross the garden and turn 
toward Rue Saint-Louis, followed by her maid; her 
step was light and elastic, as her dress was short, 
he perceived that her tiny foot rested firmly upon 
the gravel. 

At the moment that she arrived at the top of a little 
marble staircase, she met a doctor whom the Prince 
knew in Paris, and she paused to speak to him. 

That physician. Doctor Cotton Querville, nick- 
named Coton et Fit, was a little scheming humpback, 
who after having tried everything, politics, science, 
trade, finance, had ended by drifting to Cauterets 
for three months every year, where he tried to estab- 


MICHELINE 


27 


lish a connexion among those of the Parisian world 
whom he had met, principally consisting of Bohemi- 
ans and artists. 

After leaving the young woman, to whom he bowed 
deferentially, the doctor descended the staircase; 
Prince Casimir called him in order to attract his at- 
tention, for he was going in the opposite direction. 

“What, my dear Prince, you here!” said the doctor 
approaching the window. “What a surprise! You are 
not ill, I hope?” 

His surprise was so much the more natural because 
Cotton practiced it almost every day. It was his cus- 
tom to visit the various hotels every evening and to 
post himself as to the arrivals. If among the new- 
comers there was anyone with whom he was acquaint* 
ed, he managed to see him the following morning be- 
fore he had been to a doctor, and of course he was 
employed. 

Therefore he practiced his wiles upon Prince So- 
bolewski, who he knew had arrived the night before. 
He would be a patient of whom he could boast, and 
who would be more lucrative than the artists and 
comedians he usually attended. 

Casimir, having replied that he was not ill, but 
that he had come to Cauterets with his wife who 
had bronchitis, proceeded to interrogate Cotton as to 
the young woman he had just addressed. 

“What young woman? Excuse me, my dear Prince, 
but I meet so many invalids every morning who stop 
me that I cannot remember.” 

“The one you spoke to at the top of that staircase/’ 


28 


MICHELINE 


“Ah, Mme. Haronis! A charming young person, the 
wife of an engineer, a director of mines in Chili, at 
Chanarcillo, in that country which they say is 
‘strewn with turquoises/ I once knew her husband 
in Paris, a very intelligent man, with a wonderful 
brain. ’* 

“She does not appear to be ill.” 

“It is nothing: a simple case of dyspepsia, which I 
am treating with Manhourat water; she will leave 
here radically cured; however, she was in a bad con- 
dition when she arrived. The warm climate .of Chili 
is hard upon a delicate organization such as hers. 
The Princess is not seriously ill, is she?” 

“You shall judge for yourself.” 

“At what time?” 

He had succeeded: “I said to my patient. Princess 
Sobolewski, ” etc. That was excellent. 

That evening there was to be a representation 
given in the hotel drawing-rooms by Brassem, at 
which the Prince and Princess were to be present, 
but which the latter did not attend owing to a pro- 
voking accident which happened in the afternoon. 
Among the shrewd Cotton’s prescriptions was a treat- 
ment of pulverization. 

At five o’clock the Princess, her face painted skillfully 
by the dexterous Regina, seated herself without any 
misgivings before the apparatus which was to discharge 
the pulverized water into her throat; but when she 
rose, her rosy cheeks were as black as those of a ne- 
gress; the lead in the color with which she had tinted 
hei: cheeks had turned black under the action of thesul 


MICHELINE 


29 


phurous vapors. Warned by Regina, who was with her, 
she fortunately concealed the disaster from her hus- 
band; but she was so exasperated, so angry, that she 
could not attend the play that evening, and her hus- 
band was obliged to go alone. 

The drawing-room was soon filled; only one chair, 
that of the Princess, remaining unoccupied. 

At that moment Cotton entered, upon his arm the 
lovely Mme. Haronis. Seeing that he could find no seat 
for her, the Prince offered the chair beside him, and 
Mme. Haronis accepted it. Seated side by side for 
two hours, after having been introduced, they were 
almost forced into a conversation, and when they 
parted, Casimir was enchanted ; never had he seen so 
charming a woman. 

He dreamed of her; for the first time since his 
marriage he told himself that it was not perhaps as 
easy as he had thought to live without love. The fol- 
lowing morning he was at his window when she ap- 
peared at hers. He bowed low and she returned his 
salutation. 

Two hours later, while his wife was taking a bath at 
Raill^re, he, who took no treatment, went for a walk 
on the road to Manhourat. As he ascended the 
slope, he saw Mme. Haronis who was descending, 
coming toward him. On the spur of the moment 
without reflecting, he accosted her, and as she did 
not seem annoyed by that breach of etiquette, they 
resumed their conversation of the night before. 

Daily they met on that road, but instead of await- 
ing her at the descent, he met her at the top so that 


30 


MICHELINE 


they could come and go together. As he had to have 
something to justify his frequent walks to the grotto, 
he too, daily drank a glass of the water of which he 
had no need. 

Thus the season passed, Casimir acknowledging 
every evening that the impression produced upon him 
had become deeper and more lasting. Then came the 
time for departure. They were to be separated! She 
was to go to Biarritz or to Arcachon, to some place 
where she would find a climate that would complete 
her cure. At that crisis he expressed his fondness 
for her more plainly, and he asked her since she had 
not decided upon a resort, to go to Normandy where 
she would find a better climate than that of the South 
at that time of the year, to Normandy with its green 
fields, its woods, its walks shaded from the rays of 
the August sun. 

He proposed Trouville, but she objected to that as 
too fashionable and gay for a woman in her position 
with only a maid for a chaperon. He next proposed 
Villers, to which place she decided to go. What he 
desired was that they might see each other. And they 
did. Daily he mounted his horse and met her in one 
of those shady walks which are the charm of that 
country. Or else she drove to the forest of Touques 
and side by side they sauntered along beneath the 
shade of the high trees. 

For some time their love had been declared. One 
day by an irresistible impulse, they were clasped in a 
warm embrace. 

In the course of time Germaine^ s condition recalled 


MICHELINE 


81 


to them the prose of life. What should she do were 
her husband to summon her? If he did not send for her 
at once, but at the end of a certain time, as it seemed 
probable that he would, what would become of the 
child who would have neither father nor mother? 

That terrible thought which they could not banish 
from their minds, had caused them much anxiety. 

He had proposed to fly with her to some other 
country, to Italy, to England, to the United States, 
where he could earn a livelihood with his music. She 
refused. 

Not content with what she had told him of her hus- 
band, he had written to one of his friends who lived 
in Chili, to find out just what M. Haronis was, and 
his friend had replied that he was a man consumed 
by ambition, who exposed himself so boldly to danger 
that it was a wonder he was alive. At that time he 
was exploring some new mines to the north of Ataca- 
ma, from which he might never return. 

And Casimir, with his tendency to look upon the 
bright side, reassured himself by saying that she 
would no doubt never go back to Chili, and that they 
need not anticipate a misfortune which would probably 
never come to pass. 

In the meantime the winter slipped by, Casimir 
seeing Germaine daily in lodgings at Neuilly to which 
she had removed on leaving Villers. 

In the month of June Germaine repaired to the 
house of a physician at Bourg-la-Reine, and there she 
gave birth to a daughter, who was declared by the 


82 


MICHELINB 


physician who brought her into the world to be of 
unknown parentage. 

In July Prince and Princess Sobolewski left Paris 
for their castle at Hopsore; the former decided that 
Germaine should spend the summer season at Trouville, 
which place, as she had her daughter, would not be 
too gay for her, and where they could meet daily, 
sometimes at the hotel, sometimes in the forest, here 
and there, often changing their place of meeting. 


V 


The Princess loved her husband too passionately 
not to be jealous; but because she loved him, she en- 
deavored not to show her jealousy. 

When at forty-two years of age, she entertained 
thoughts of marrying a man of twenty-seven, she was 
sensible enough to avow to herself that the day would 
come when she would be to him only as a mother. 
But after she was married she hoped that that day 
would never come. 

She obtained from London a marvelous dye which 
gave to her hair a wonderful softness and luster, and 
she went to Violet’s herself to choose the gloves in 
which she slept, the pencils, the best paints — at a 
hundred francs a jar — all those cosmetics which Re- 
gina used with the talent of an artist. 

What precautions she took when she made those 
purchases, stopping her carriage at Labrousse’s where 
she bought flowers at exorbitant prices, and pass- 
ing the shops on the boulevard until she reached that 
of Violet into which she rushed as hastily as do the 
miserable wretches into the Mont-de-Pi^t^. 

What precautions she took too with her toilette, 
during which the door of her chamber was bolted as 
securely as that of a prison. He had never therefore 
suspected that that fair hair, those regular brows, 
3 33 


34 


MICHELINE 


those rosy cheeks, those cherry-ripe lips, those soft 
hands, those glossy nails, were artificial in the least. 
It was all owing to care, the care which a handsome 
woman owed to her beauty. And yet the hour had 
come a year before when the wife gave place to the 
mother. 

Assuredly he had never ceased to love her, and she 
even acknowledged to herself that he had never been 
anything but tender and affectionate to her. He had 
never been more attentive, more deferential, but she 
would have preferred less affection and more love, less 
deference and more companionship. 

During the first two years of their wedded life, he 
had never left her; he had accompanied her every- 
where and desired her to accompany him. Now, on 
the contrary, he had new reasons daily for going out 
alone, first one pretext and then another, always plau- 
sible but nevertheless very irritating, very annoying, 
very aggravating. 

Whither did he go? Among the women of her ac- 
quaintance she feared no rival, for she admired him 
so much that she considered no woman worthy of his 
attentions. 

In spite of her anguish she suppressed her feelings, 
and she always saw him off with a smile upon her 
lips, and welcomed him in the same way. Could she 
not win him back by gentleness, submission and smiles? 
She did not wish to adhere to smiles, submission and 
gentleness alone; she desired to act, and in a manner 
which would touch his heart. 

Carola, although a very pretty girl, had reached the 


MlCHBLiNE 


S5 


age of twenty-four without finding a husband. It was 
the same with Wanda, who was twenty-two, resembled 
her brother, was tall, fair, elegant, charming. Hed- 
wige, too, was nineteen, and not less striking than her 
sisters; still she had no matrimonial prospects either. 
What man would take a girl without a sou who was 
born a princess? A lawyer? A merchant? A trades- 
man? Such a wife would be an encumbrance. 

At length Carola found a vice-consul, who was only 
waiting to become consul in order to marry, and who 
had made up his mind with regard to a dowry. 

That dowry the Princess had promised him and she 
had promised Hedwige and Wanda the same. 

Should he not be pleased with what she had done 
for his sisters — for him, that is to say? Should he not 
be as grateful to her as he was for the allowances she 
had given his brothers, to Adam who seldom sold a 
painting; to Ladislas who had never completed the 
great invention on which he relied to make his fort- 
une ; to Witold who notwithstanding the fact that he 
was sixteen, had not chosen his profession but wavered 
between three distinctly different ones: the Army, the 
Ministry and Art, feeling disposed now for one, now 
for the other, for if the position of a great artist had 
its charms, that of a bishop or a general had its ad- 
vantages. 

All that had only brought about a moral recognition, 
while she required a material one, and with that ob- 
ject in view she had arranged matters so that Carola's 
marriage might take place at Hopsore. When Casi- 
mir had about him his brothers, his sisters and his 


86 


MICHEUNB 


future brother-in-law, he could no longer leave the 
castle, and she would not be tormented by his absence 
as she had been for a year; for six weeks or two 
months she would have peace; the bad habits of the 
perceding year once broken, they would undoubtedly 
never be resumed. 

When she saw him mount his horse the first day of 
their installation at Hopsore, she congratulated herself 
upon the scheme; he would be detained at home, and 
not by her, that was the great point. 

She expected that the next morning he would go 
again, and she even rose to see him off. Seeing that 
he made no effort to go, she was delighted, and her 
one thought was to repay him for the joy he had 
afforded her by remaining at home. 

As he seemed anxious to take the air, she proposed 
a drive and he agreed to her proposal. She suggested 
that they go by way of Trouville to Villerville, fol- 
lowing the road along the cliff; but he, on the other 
hand, wished to turn his back upon Trouville; and 
she yielded to his wish, finding in it nothing extraor- 
dinar}". 

She had made an elegant toilette, but he did not 
seem to notice it, being evidently preoccupied. It 
was only when she spoke to him of the wedding-gift 
she was going to offer to Carola, and which she had 
ordered at her jewelers^ Marche and Chabert's, a 
pair of sapphire ear-rings, that he emerged from his 
reverie, and taking both of her hands said impulsively: 
“You are the best of women.” 


MJCHELINE 


37 


“Take care,” said she in his ear, “we are not in a 
closed carriage.” 

“What does that matter?” he replied with uncon- 
scious brutality, “I must tell you that I do not deserve 
all that you, in your ingenious generosity-—” 

“Out of love for you,” she interrupted. 

“Have done for my people; but, rest assured, that 
my heart is filled with gratitude.” 

“Then I am happy!” she cried with a radiant face. 
“Is not my whole life consecrated to proving my 
love for you? I only think of that, I only seek that.” 

Then correcting herself that he might not think she 
was giving the ear-rings on his account, and expected 
thanks from him, she said: “In the present instance 
I thought more of Carola than of you. I love her 
very dearly and I am happy to be able to show it by 
giving her something that I know she wants. The 
best thing about money is that it gives us the means 
of being indulgent to those we love.” 

He took her hand again, and having pressed it, he 
retained it in his. She would have liked to have 
remained thus always and to have driven until night- 
fall, but very soon it became necessary to give the order 
to return to Hopsore, for she was in the habit of dress- 
ing for dinner even when they dined alone, and there 
was just sufficient time so that Regina would, not be 
hurried. It was not only by her generosity, affection 
and personal appearance that she wished to please her 
husband, she wished too to surround him with material 
things which could give him satisfaction in any way 
whatsoever. 


38 


MICHELINE 


He was exceedingly temperate, he ate very little for 
fear of becoming obese; he drank water because wine 
made his face red, so she tried to have upon the ta- 
ble daily a better meal than any club or restaurant 
could offer him, fancying that if he had those things 
at home, he would not think of seeking them else- 
where. 

When the dinner-bell rang Regina put the last touch 
to her mistress’ toilette, and declared that in her 
decollete gown with natural flowers in her hair, she 
had never looked handsomer. 

“Madame is surely not more than twenty-five.” 

And the Princess whose head was not turned by 
compliments replied softly that she was at least thir- 
ty, not being able to make up her mind to own that 
she was forty-five, and preferring to appear like an old 
young woman rather than like a young old woman 
still possessed of dignity and beauty, for such she was 
in reality. 

When they were seated opposite each other in the 
spacious dining-room whose long, high windows over- 
looked the valley, the daily routine was gone through; 
that is to say, scarcely eating anything herself, she 
busied herself with him as a mother would with a 
little child, insisting that he taste of the dishes she 
considered successes, not turning her eyes from his 
face except to give a sign to one or the other of the 
two servants. 

To her great delight he did honor to the bill of 
fare she had prepared that morning with her cook, 
and also to the wines she had chosen. 


MICHELINE 


39 


She was so happy when they left the table and en- 
tered the red drawing-room, that she ventured a re- 
quest she rarely proffered: “Would he not play a 
little? “ 

But to her regret he could not grant her that pleas- 
ure; he was obliged to go out. 

She restrained the tears which rushed into her eyes. 

“You are right,” she said, “it will do you more good 
than to remain in-doors! I should have proposed it.” 

Then he explained that the preceding day he had met 
two friends — he named them — whom he had promised 
to meet at the Casino; perhaps he should return late; 
if they insisted on his playing he could not refuse. 

She had had time to regain her self-possession; she 
approached him and putting her hand in his coat 
pocket — for he wore his coat while she was in evening 
dress — she drew from it a small note-book and opened 
it; within it was a note for five hundred francs. 

Quickly she left the' room and returned almost imme- 
diately, holding in her hand a bundle of bank notes. 

“Should Prince Sobolewski play cards with only five 
hundred francs?” she said, and almost forcibly press- 
ing the package upon him, she added: “Good luck! 
Enjoy yourself!” 

It was only when she heard the carriage which 
bore him away roll along the gravel-drive that she 
gave way. 


VI 


If she had questioned him angrily, showing him 
that she was suspicious, making a scene, he would 
have defended himself; but her gentleness and ten- 
derness troubled him ; shamefacedly he invented pre- 
texts for going out which could not deceive her; his 
heart contracted when he saw the efforts she made to 
smile when the tears filled her eyes. 

Poor woman, how she suffered! How she loved him! 
He took the road from Hopsore to Trouville, angry 
with himself as well as with her; for he thought that 
if he was in the wrong, she was too. Why did she 
not grow old? It was not his fault if she did not 
wish to be old. 

He left his carriage at the Bras Or, and rapidly, 
like a man who did not wish to be accosted, he turned 
his steps toward Germaine’s hotel. With the close 
of day had sprung up a sea-breeze sufficiently chilly 
to clear the streets of all loungers; he arrived at the 
door without having met anyone whom he knew. 

He did not need to knock; at the sound of his foot- 
steps the door opened and Germaine seizing his arm 
drew him into the room brusquely; when he was in- 
doors, she flung herself into his arms in despair. He 
looked at her in surprise, for Eugenie was in the room, 
and although she had no secrets from the old servant 

40 


MICHELINE 


41 


who had been her nurse, she did not usually give way 
to her feelings before her. 

“What is it?” he asked in affright. 

“We are lost!” Without saying anything more she 
drew him into another room, her room, in which near 
her bed stood a cradle with drawn curtains. She drew 
one aside and among the snowy pillows lay a tiny, 
pink babe. 

“You love her, " she exclaimed, her voice trembling 
with emotion; “she is your daughter, she will be your 
daughter? Swear that you will always be a father to 
her!” 

He had never seen Germaine in such a state of ex- 
citement, she who was ordinarily so concentrated in 
her passion. 

“Swear,” said she, “swear!” 

“Certainly, I swear.” 

The child moved upon her pillow, turned, and put 
her wee fists up to her eyes. Finally she opened her 
eyes, and after a momentary look of astonishment, she 
began to smile at the light. 

“Kiss her,” said Germaine. 

His caress was not agreeable to the child, who be- 
gan to cry, then Germaine summoned Eugenie and 
bade her put the infant to sleep again. 

When the servant had left the room, the Prince 
proceeded to inquire into the cause of Germaine’s 
agitation. 

“My husband commands me to return to him. I 
received his letter this morning; he wishes me to 
leave Havre on the 2ist.” 


42 


MICHELINE 


Since they had loved one another, they had lived 
with that threat suspended above their heads, assuring 
themselves that it might come to-day, to-morrow, and 
hoping nevertheless, without precisely stating their 
hopes, for some accident, some miracle. 

She had come to France to spend a few months; 
she had remained there more than a year ; why could 
she not remain longer? 

“Can you not reply that your health will not permit 
you to return to Chili just now?” 

“That is what I have written for eight months; he 
will not listen to it any longer. I must go.” 

He took both of her hands. “Then it is time for us 
to go away together,” said he. She cast herself upon 
him, and strained him passionately to her breast. 

“You can say so,” she cried, “but I cannot accept. 
If that letter is a blow to us, it is no surprise. I 
have expected it as well as you. Did we not have a 
presentiment yesterday that it was coming? For a 
whole year not a day has passed in which I have not 
wondered what we would do when it came. I there- 
fore reflected while I studied you. You are kindness, 
generosity itself. For ten years you have lived for 
your brothers and sisters; it was for them that you 
sacrificed yourself. To-day they are reaping the ben- 
efits of that sacrifice: your sister, Carola, is betrothed 
to a man whom she loves; your sisters Wanda and 
Hedwige will soon marry; your brothers can now 
work with the hope of obtaining honor and an assured 
fortune. What would become of them if we were to 
fly as you propose?” 


MICHELINE 


43 


She spoke with the extreme volubility of a woman 
who exi)resses ideas which she has weighed a hundred 
times, and the words of which rush hastily to her 
lips. 

She paused and looked at him with hopeless eyes. 

“I want you to love me,” she continued. “I want 
you to love me always, and I value your love above 
everything. Could you love me if I made you miser- 
able by rendering your people unhappy? Yes, at this 
moment when you feel that we are about to be sepa- 
rated, and that your heart will break, you are ready 
to sacrifice them for me, and it is in all sincerity 
that you say: ‘Let us go.’ But if we go, what 
would be our life in some small town in Austria, 
England, the United States, whither we would flee? 
At the bottom of our heart would there not lurk re- 
proach against her for whom you sacrificed your flesh 
and blood? There is only one thing to be done: I 
shall go; on the 21st I shall leave Havre.” 

“And Micheline?” he asked. 

‘‘She is asleep; speak softly. If I have the right 
to decide as to my life, which belongs to me, I 
have not the right to decide as to Micheline’ s, who 
belongs to you as much as to me. We must decide 
together.” 

‘‘You cannot take her with you.” 

‘‘Certainly not; it is that which causes my anguish. 
For you the separation is comparatively easy, I go 
and you remain; for me, it is doubly hard, T leave 
you and my child. You know that I shall feed upon 
the memory of you and your love, but I shall know 


44 


MICHELINE 


nothing of that poor child for weeks and months; not 
even shall I know if she be living, or if I am weeping 
for a dead child.” When she spoke of herself it was 
with despair, but with courage: in speaking of her 
child she weakened and a sob interrupted her speech. 
“Pardon my weakness,” said she. “You scarcely 
know Micheline, but I love her, and when I think 
that I am about to abandon her, so helpless, so tiny, 
when she needs me so much, it maddens me.” 

“Am I not here?’ 

“Yes, devoted as you may be, you cannot take the 
place of her mother.” 

“Well, if you have decided nothing, you have at 
least some plan, some project? Have you not been 
able since the receipt of that letter to form some 
scheme?” 

“That which seems to me the wisest plan, is to 
put Micheline out to nurse in the neighborhood of 
Trouville where she might be near you, where you 
could go to see her and watch over her. Eugenie will 
not return to Chili with me, the climate would kill 
her; she will remain in France, and will go to her 
family near Argentan. One can easily go from Argen- 
tan to Trouville by rail; she can visit Micheline 
when you cannot. Either from you or her I will 
then receive news frequently, up to the moment when 
I shall return. For you do not think I shall return 
to Chili to die there, far from you, from her. I would 
rather die at once. The separation which my hus- 
band would refuse me if I asked it of him and re- 
mained in France, he will give me some day when I 


MICHBUNE 


45 


am near him, and when his pride will not be in- 
volved in the question of my return. On that day I 
shall come back to you, and to obtain my child — 
from whom no one will be able to separate me.” 

The Prince should have been reassured, but the 
frown upon his brow did not disappear. 

“Do you not approve of that arrangement?” she 
asked uneasily. 

“No.” 

“You do not want her given to a nurse?” 

“Do you want me to see her?” he asked. 

“I demand that of you.” 

“Very well, how can I go to see a child with its 
nurse in a place where everyone knows me? Under 
what pretext?” 

“You will find one. ” 

“Have you?” 

“I have not tried.” 

“I have been racking my brain while you have been 
explaining your ideas to me, and I have not found 
one. A man of my age and in my position does 
not go to a nurse’s house to visit a child he does not 
know and whose mother he does not know either; for 
I must not know you, must I?” 

She looked at him more hopelessly because he of- 
fered an objection, than on account of the objection 
itself. 

“Then you will not go to see her at her nurse’s?” 
she asked anxiously. 

“This is the way it should be; I should have rea- 
sons for seeing her, reasons that I could confess.” 


46 


MICHELINE 


“What would they be?” 

“That is what we must find out.“ 

He rose and began to pace the room, while she 
sat motionlessly in her chair; she was too agitated to 
concentrate her mind upon any one idea; she thought 
not only of her daughter’s nurse, but of her lover, of 
the present hour and of the morrow, of her departure, 
of the separation, and her brain was confused. 

“I have a plan,” said the Prince finally, “but it has 
its romantic side which will perhaps startle you.” 

“My God!” she murmured. 

“If you are afraid — ” said he hesitatingly. 

“It was only the word which frightened me, it was 
not the plan, for I do not know it.” 

“I have a reason for taking an interest in Micheline 
without surprisng anyone by my solicitude for her, or 
even by the affection which I may show her. All the 
difficulties will be surmounted and we can put her out 
to nurse even at Hopsore, and better still, with my 
forester’s wife, who has a boy babe a month old. The 
woman is fine-looking, healthy and experienced, for 
she has nursed two children.” 

“That would do very well.” 

“It can be arranged if you wish it.” 

“If I wish it! ” 

“This is how I think matters should be arranged : 
my forester’s house is at the park gate which leads 
into the wood; it is a nice, comfortable house in a 
pleasant and healthful location; once I would have 
been glad to have lived in such a house. At a certain 
hour agreed upon by us, you will go to the forest with 


MICHELINE 


47 


Micheline; you will place her at the foot of a tree 
also agreed upon by' us. At that moment I shall pass 
by accidentally and I shall find her.’* 

She uttered a stifled cry. 

"Leave my child in the forest!" 

"You will not lose sight of her; you will see me 
take her and carry her to the forester^ s wife to whom 
I will confide her. Whether you give our daughter to 
the nurse, or whether I do so, the sorrow of the sepa- 
ration will be the same for you." 

"But I should not abandon her if I gave her to a 
nurse. " 

*‘I shall find her if you abandon her, and that will 
create a bond between us; she will be to a certain 
extent my child, I can watch over her. I shall have 
intrusted her to the nurse and she will be responsible 
to me. Micheline will live with me, in my park. I 
will see her daily and Eugenie’ vsisits will be needless, 
for I can tell you of her in every letter.” 

She gasped: "My child! Abandon my child!" 

"The situation is unpleasant enough without ag- 
gravating it by words which are not applicable. If 
to all appearances you abandon your child, the truth 
is that you deliver her into her father’s hands, and in 
order that that may be done, I see no other means — 
apparently, venturesome, but in reality without any 
danger. You asked me — you made me promise — to be 
her father; I will be." 

That was true; notwithstanding the feeling of repug- 
nance, she recognized its truth. If she desired (as 
she did) to have him see the child daily and to watch 


48 


MICMELINE 


over her as a father, there was no other means, hor- 
rible as it might seem to her. However, she made one 
last objection. 

“Will you be the only one to pass the foot of that 
tree?” 

“If I were alone there would be no need of these 
precautions, you would only have to place her in my 
arms. “ 

She hesitated a moment. 

“Will the Princess accompany you?” 

“Would she not be the best witness?” 

“She would not be alone a witness; like you, she 
would find the child; like you, she would have a 
claim upon her. ” 

“And if she should love her?” 

“I do not want her to love my child!” 


VII 


At midnight they were still debating, returning to 
what they had already repeated twenty times. 

“I do not pretend that my plan is perfect,” said 
Casimir, “but I do not see any other.” 

Germaine could devise no other, and it was that which 
troubled her; there were only two days before them. 
Finally it was decided that the following morning 
she shcnild go to examine the forest road bordering on 
the forester’s house; after having seen with her own 
eyes that Micheline had no danger to run, after hav- 
ing examined the house in which her daughter was to 
be reared, she would be more contented. 

As for him, he could visit the spot early, and would 
mark with a pole the tree he had selected and which 
she would recognize by the sign in order that no error 
or confusion might be possible. 

It was two o’clock in the morning when he returned 
to Hopsore, and 'if, as he passed his wife’s door, he 
had listened a moment he would have heard that the 
Princess was not asleep; but he had other thoughts on 
his mind. 

The next day at seven o’clock he descended into 
the garden, and strolling along as if simply making a 
tour of his grounds, he^ sauntered toward the for- 
ester’s house. 


4 


49 


50 


MICHELINE 


It was indeed charming, as he had said, the type of 
an English cottage, built of brick and stone, the roof 
of red-and-green slate crowned by high chimneys, 
festooned with garlands of climbing glories de Dijon 
intermingled with Marechal Neils of that perfect form 
and color found only at the sea-shore where the soil 
is rich and the atmosphere moist; before the cottage 
stretched a small green lawn with a large tree in the 
center. On the threshold a woman was seated nurs- 
ing a child whom she sheltered from the sun with her 
large hand; it was the forester’s wife of whom he 
had told Germaine. 

Through the open door he could see the kitchen; 
the bright fire-irons and kettles within it proved the 
neatness of the mistress of the cottage. 

On perceiving her master the woman would have 
risen, had he not with a wave of his hand bade her 
remain seated. 

“Do not rise, Mme. Philbert, you will awaken your 
child.” 

“There is no danger of his sleeping, the rogue; he 
would rather take a meal, of which, fortunately, there 
is an abundance.” 

The woman’s appearance did not belie her words. 

“I could care for more than one,” said she proudly, 
“but Philbert does not want me to; the fact is that 
when one has three children to bring up that is suffi- 
cient. ” 

Beaumoussel had been very exacting with the peo- 
ple in his service; the Prince, on the contrary, kind 
and indulgent, was always satisfied with them. He 


MICHELINE 


51 


would not permit the woman to leave her seat, and 
having bowed to her as politely as he would have 
bowed to a lady of rank, he himself opened the gate and 
passed into the forest. At that gate, upon which his 
wife had set her arms since she had become a prin- 
cess, began the road of which he had spoken to Ger- 
maine. 

As it led to no place in particular, unless it was to 
the castle, it was generally deserted, and there was 
scarcely a beaten path. At about a hundred metres 
from the forester’s house, he turned abruptly into a 
grove of venerable trees whose summits were so thick- 
ly interlaced that the light of day fell very faintly up- 
on the green, moss-covered ground. That was the 
path Camisir had chosen; there would be no danger 
to fear for the child, no surprise for the mother, and 
in an excavation recently made in order to obtain 
gravel, Germaine could hide without being perceived 
and could remain there to watch Micheline until he 
should accidentally pass. 

Before entering that grove where there were no 
shoots, he had cut a twig of hazel in order to make a 
stake. But when he had planted it before the tree 
he had selected, a large beech whose base was covered 
with thick moss, he was dissatisfied with it, and as 
there was no one in that grove to watch or disturb 
him, he carved with the point of his knife on the bark 
of the beech a large G, which would be a sure sign for 
Germaine. 

All precautions having been taken, he returned to 
the castle where he remained all day thinking of his 


52 


MICHELINE 


poor Germaine — of her anguish, and of her despair. 

How dearly they were both paying for their days of 
happiness! How terrible for her would be the long 
hours of her journey without the face of a friend 
near her. He, on the contrary, would remain at his 
castle in the midst of its luxury; with his daughter, 
whom he would see daily. Then he wondered if he 
had done his duty in not obliging her to go away with 
him and to accept his sacrifice. 

What a mistake he had made when he assured him- 
self that he could live without love! 

Heedlessly they had entered into that adventure, 
without anticipating anything, giving themselves up 
to the intoxication of the moment without thinking 
of what the future would bring forth. A smile had 
fascinated him and had made his life — what it was. 

At dinner he looked troubled, and notwithstanding 
his desire not to arouse suspicions which might later 
on cause him annoyance, it was impossible for him to 
shake off his care. 

“Did you lose last night?” asked his wife, trying 
to divine the cause of his trouble. 

“I won! ” 

“And does that make you so preoccupied?” 

“It annoys me for this reason, that having won I am 
obliged to give my friends revenge, and I did not wish 
to go to Trouville to-night." 

She concealed the feeling of painful surprise which 
that news awoke in her: “Do not let that worry you,” 
said she. “It is too plausible a reason for complaint, 
and moreover, you know that I never complain.” 


MICHELINE 


53 


At any other time he would have had a kind word 
for that abnegation, but just then he had other 
thoughts in his mind than pity for his wife. 

As the day before, he arrived at Germaine’s door at 
nightfall, trembling and in doubt as to how he should 
find her. She was prostrated, but calmer, more reso- 
lute; she was no longer wildly agitated; she was des- 
perate. 

“You shall have the child,” said she, “I have seen 
the house; she will be well off there; through the gate 
I saw the forester’s wife; she will make a fine nurse.” 

“She is more than a fine nurse, she is a good wom- 
an, a good mother. ” 

He made that reply at random, moved by the tone 
in which she addressed him, by the sadness of the eyes 
she turned upon him, and not wishing to yield to the 
emotion which contracted his heart. 

“Forgive me for having hesitated yesterday as to 
your proposition,’' said she. “I saw nothing at first 
but the desertion of my child. Now I am convinced 
that there is no danger. I was beside myself or I 
should have been touched by the paternal sentiment 
which that proposition proved. I have had no expe- 
rience in the affairs of life nor of the human heart, 
but it seems to me that more than one father in your 
place, would have put the child thrown thus across 
his path, to nurse at a distance from him. You, loyal, 
generous and honorable man, did not make that cal- 
culation. I assure you that in my distress it is a great 
comfort to pie to know that she will have you near 


54 


MICHELINE 


her. This will be the thought to which I shall cling: 
He is there; she loves him.” 

They embraced. 

“Alas! What trouble I have brought upon you!” 
she exclaimed. “What sorrow, what torture I have 
inflicted upon you! But you love me!” 

They were, however forced to turn their thoughts 
to their child, for all had not been talked over since 
Germaine had decided to leave Micheline in the for- 
est; it was necessary to determine how that was to 
be done. 

It was decided that if Germaine left Trouville in 
a carriage, her daughter in her arms, and stopped the 
carriage at the intersection of the roads from Agnes- 
seau and Hopsore, the coachman would be surprised to 
see her return without the child, and would try to find 
out what she had done with it. 

“I will only take a carriage to ascend the hill,” 
said Germaine, “the rest of the way I will walk carry- 
ing Micheline. I shall not have her much longer to 
press to my breast.” 

Precautions had to be taken with regard to the hotel, 
to which she could not return, either, without the 
babe. So it was agreed that upon leaving the forest 
she should go direct to the steamer at Havre, in order 
to embark from that place, while Eugenie could go 
to Pont-P Eveque and take the train. As they consult- 
ed thus, she suddenly ceased replying. 

“What ails you?” he asked. 

“I seems as if we were plotting some crime.” 

For several seconds they gazed atone another with- 


MICHELINE 


55 


out speaking. But nothing must be left to chance; 
they resumed their discussion. 

There was one point which, although of much less 
importance than those already decided upon, was how- 
ever important to Germaine: 

Micheline's wardrobe! That wardrobe which she had 
gathered together with so much pleasure and which 
she had made principally herself. She wanted her 
child to have those dainty garments. But it was im- 
possible; she understood that and submitted. 

She would, however, make a small bundle of several 
pieces upon which she would lay Micheline at the 
foot of the tree, and she would give the rest to Eu- 
genie for her nephews and nieces. 

After having arranged everything imaginable for 
the child, they talked of themselves. 

“Shall we never meet again?” she asked. “Shall 
I have to leave without bidding you farewell, without 
knowing anything of our child?” 

“As soon as I have safely installed Micheline with 
her nurse, I will leave for Houfleur, at which place I 
will take the steamer. I will arrive at Havre almost 
as soon as you. Go to Frascati^ s. Take a room un- 
der the name of 'Mme. Germain.' We will remain to- 
gether until your embarkation.” 


VIII 


The departure of the steamer from Trouville to 
Havre determined the hour for leaving Micheline; 
as the hour fixed was five o’clock in the evening, they 
had decided that at two o’clock precisely Germaine 
should place her child in the grove at the foot of the 
tree marked with a G, and that at two minutes past 
two Casimir would appear. 

That morning Germaine left the hotel with Mich- 
eline whom Eugenie carried, and at noon they took 
a carriage on the quay which took them to the forest, 
at which place they left it, ostensibly to take a stroll 
in the woods and return on foot to Trouville. They 
waited until the coachman had disappeared, then, 
when his curiosity was no longer to be feared they 
turned toward Hopsore, Germaine carrying her child, 
pressing it to her breast and occasionally raising its 
veil to kiss it, when the little one, happy no doubt 
to breathe more freely, smiled in its mother’s face. 

It was a quarter past one when they reached the road 
to Hopsore; they had more time than they needed 
in which to reach the grove. 

Germaine entered a thicket where she was safe from 
the gaze of passers-by upon the road, and in a little 
glade she undressed the babe and changed its clothes. 
The infant cooed with delight and stretched its plump, 

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Stooping, he raised Micheline in his arms . — Page 6o 


MICHELINE 


57 


rosy limbs. From time to time its mother kissed 
one of its feet. 

'‘My poor little girl!” murmured Germaine with a 
sigh. 

“Madame must not make herself ill, “said Eugenie, 
“many children are put out to nurse and they are none 
the worse for it. When I took you home your poor 
mother sighed as if I were taking you to the ceme- 
tery; it did not prevent you from becoming a fine 
child, and I can vouch for your having been well cared 
for. There are good people in the world. And then 
the Prince will be there.” 

Eugenie’s words might be true, but Germaine’s 
reason had nothing to do with the question; it was 
her heart which was involved, and that was filled 
with the thought that she was to be separated from 
her child. 

She nursed the babe who clung to her breast as 
eagerly as if she knew that it was for the last time; 
at least Germaine fancied so, and she burst into tears. 

"Come, madame, do not give way,” said Eugenie. 
“What shall we do if you are not composed?” 

Germaine carried her child to the very last moment. 
It was not long before they reached the grove. 

“There is the tree,” said Germaine, pointing to the 
beech marked with a G,, “and here is the trench in 
which we are to conceal ourselves.” 

She spoke softly; but in the silence which was 
neither broken by the song of a bird, nor by the rus- 
tling of a breeze, beneath that vault of foliage which 
inclosed them^ her voice pounded as respnant as in a 


58 


MICHELINE 


cathedral. Germaine trembled from head to foot. 

“Give me the little one, you will awaken her, ’’ said 
Eugenie. 

That time Germaine obeyed, feeling that if her child 
awoke and looked at her, she could never tear herself 
away. How cowardly she was not to be able to con- 
trol herself! After having made that resolution, was 
she going to be too weak to carry it out? 

Eugenie had put upon the ground the tiny package 
containing the child’s clothes. Germaine took it and 
arranged it that it might serve the babe as a pillow; 
as she knelt upon the moss weeping, Eugenie reminded 
her that she must not forget the time. It lacked five 
minutes of two. 

“Put Micheline on the pillow,” said Germaine in a 
choking voice. 

Eugenie too knelt down and carefully put the infant 
on the pillow without awakening her; Germaine bent 
over her and was about to raise her veil, when Eu- 
genie stayed her hand. 

“If you kiss her you will surely arouse her,” said 
the woman, who had risen from her kneeling posture. 

“My God!” murmured Germaine. But that time 
too she obeyed, and raising the end of the embroidered 
cloak she kissed it several times passionately. 

“It is time," said Eugenie; “come, we shall be sur- 
prised.” 

As Germaine did not stir, she drew her to the edge 
of the quarry and pushed her on before her. 

“Here we can see without being seen,” said Eu- 
genie, stationing her mistress behind a heap of stones. 


MICHELINE 


59 


But Germaine saw nothing clearly, tears filled her 
eyes — indistinctly she saw several paces before her a 
white form — the form of her child whom she could 
not clasp in her arms. 

On the opposite side from that by which they had 
come, they heard the sound of footsteps on the 
ground road. Germaine felt an instinctive glimmer 
of hope; were it a stranger she would appear and 
take back her child! 

“The Prince!” whispered Eugenie. 

Indeed, at a turning in the road, they saw the 
Prince advancing slowly, walking beside his wife. 

At one o’clock he had informed her that he was 
going to take a turn in the forest, and he had asked 
her if she did not wish to accompany him as far as 
the park gate. As she was never happier than when 
she could go out with her husband she gladly accept- 
ed the invitation, notwithstanding the intense heat of 
the sun. 

Fortunately the Prince did not walk quickly; 
it took them almost an hour to go from the castle to 
the park gate, and there they paused a moment to ad- 
dress several remarks to the forester’s wife. 

The Princess was not going beyond that gate, but 
when he asked her if she would not go into the woods 
with him, she gladly went. She would have been 
pleased had he offered her his arm, but as he did not 
do so, she dared not ask for its support. 

When they reached the turning in the road, he 
made a gesture of surprise. 

“What is that white object?” he asked, and without 


60 


MICHELINE 


awaiting a reply, he walked rapidly toward it. 
When he had taken three or four steps, the Princess 
saw him raise his hands in astonishment, and turning 
toward her, he exclaimed: “Why it is a child!” 

Stooping, he raised Micheline in his arms and 
walked toward his wife. 

“Look at the poor child,” said he, “left at the foot 
of a tree here in the heart of the forest.” 

“Why do you think it has been deserted? Its nurse 
is surely somewhere about.” Then she called: “Nurse! 
Nurse!” To which call there was no response. 

“There is no nurse,” said he, “you see that it has 
been abandoned.” 

She placed so much faith in all that her husband 
said that she accepted his statement. 

“Its parents must be monsters,” cried she. “It 
might have been bitten by a dog, the poor, little 
creature!” 

”What shall we do?” he asked. 

“Give her to me; you can not remain here with 
the child in your arms.” 

That was a proposition to which he dared not ac- 
cede, for Germaine must not see her child in the 
arms of her whose love for it she feared. “Well, 
and if I should give her to you, what then?” he in- 
quired, still retaining the child. 

“I would carry her to PhilberPs; we cannot leave 
her in the woods; she is crying, perhaps she is hun- 
gry**’ 

“I will carry her myself.” He walked beside his 


MICHELINE 


61 


wife without daring to glance around him in search 
of Germaine. 

“This is a strange adventure!” said the Prin- 
cess. “One does not find a child every day. This 
one is elegantly dressed, too! It was, therefore, not 
poverty which forced her parents to abandon her. 
How can any one desert a child?” She uttered an 
exclamation of anger, like a woman who surely would 
not have abandoned her child if she had been fortunate 
enough to have one. 

“What do they do with abandoned children?” she 
asked. 

Evidently he would only have to say the word 
and she would accept his proposal; but that word 
might be dangerous, and later on might excite suspi- 
cion ; it would be wiser to lead up to what he wanted 
to bring about. 

“They put them in the House for Foundlings,” said 
he. 

“If poor people find them, I can understand that, 
but can it be possible that people in our circumstan- 
ces should do so? Just think, Prince! Did Provi- 
dence will that a poor, deserted little being should 
be found by Prince Sobolewski that he, in his turn 
might abandon it and take it to an Orphan Asy- 
lum?” 

“What can we do?” 

“We can care for it until it is claimed by its par- 
ents, for it seems to me they must claim it. ” 

“Where would you get a nurse?” 

‘Why not ask PhilberPs wife to nurse it?*' 


62 


MICHELINE 


'‘She told me some time since that her husband did 
not want her to take a nursling.” 

"When one wants anything of Philbert, one has only 
to name one's price: we will take the babe there. 
His wife has before this nursed two children at one 
time, and they were ver}^ healthy.” 

They had, in the meantime, reached the park gate. 


IX 


When Mme. Philbert saw the Prince enter with a 
child in his arms she uttered an exclamation of sur- 
prise. 

“My God, what is that?” 

“A child we have just found in the grove.” 

The Princess cut short all further remarks by explain- 
ing the situation and telling the woman what she re- 
quired. 

“A nursling! Faith! That can be, there is enough 
for two. If only Philbert will consent.” 

“That I will undertake to arrange,” said the Princess. 
“But as we cannot wait until Philbert comes in to 
discuss that, commence by giving some nourishment 
to the poor creature, who I fear is dying of hunger; 
see how it cries!” 

Without any hesitation Mme. Philbert, seating her- 
self upon a low chair, took the child in her arms. At 
first it seemed doubtful as to whether it cared for 
an}^ food; then it took the proffered nourishment, but 
not eagerly. 

“It is not dying of hunger,” said the experienced 
woman. 

As Micheline took her food, Mme. Philbert took off 
her cloak and veil. “It is a fine child,” said she. 


63 


64 


MICHELINE 


“How old do you think it is?” asked the Princess. 

“About two months old, perhaps a little more, per- 
haps a little less. I assure you it has not suffered; see 
these clean clothes: it did not lie at the foot of that 
tree very long.” 

“We saw no one,” said the Prince. 

“Those who planned the affair disappeared when 
you picked up the little one; that is easily seen; but 
who could it have been?” 

“See if the linen is marked,” said the Princess. 

“It was marked, but the mark has been taken out: 
there are some threads still left in it.” 

“Here is a poor little waif,” said the Princess. “Is 
it not sad?” 

“The child was in luck that Madame passed by! “ 
said the nurse. 

“When your husband returns, send him to us, ” said 
the Prince, who returned to the castle with the 
Princess at a brisker pace than he had come. 

Indeed, he was in haste to leave for Pont-PEv^que, 
there to take the train to Houfleur, from which 
place he would embark for Havre. 

“I believe there are some formalities to be gone 
through when one finds a child,” said he, as they 
walked along. 

“What are they?” 

“I do not know; but I shall go to Pont-P Ev^que 
to ask your lawyer. I think it would be prudent to 
have everything all right; it is mysterious enough for 
us to be cautious; moreover, we should do what the 
law requires in the interest of the child” 


MICHELINE 


05 


She hoped he was going to ask her to accompany him, 
but he made a remark which assured her that such 
was not his intention: “In the meantime you will 
come to an understanding with Philbert.” 

Ten minutes later he left for Pont-P Ev^que, and 
did not defer calling upon his lawyer, to whom he’* 
related the “find” made by the Princess and himself, 
and asked his advice. 

“The law provides for such cases,” said the lawyer, 
“but as it is not a daily occurrence, I must look it up. 
Here it is,” said he. “A person finding a newly-born 
infant must deliver it up to an othcer of the law, as 
well as the clothes and other effects found with the 
child.” 

“What, the child must be delivered up?” cried the 
Prince. 

“There is another clause which offsets article 58 
and this is it: ‘This provision does not apply to him 
who has decided to take charge of the child and who 
has made a declaration to that effect before the 
municipality of the place in which the child was 
found.' So you have only to make a declaration before 
your mayor, which you see is very simple. ” 

Having obtained that information he wrote a few 
lines to his wife, telling her of what he had just 
learned, and informing her that he was going to Hou- 
fleur with his friends, from which place he would 
not return home until the morrow. 

At four o'clock he left for Houfleur, and arrived 
just in time to take the steamer for Havre. It was 
five o'clock. At that hour Germaine should be ieav- 
5 


66 


MICHELINE 


ing Trouville. He wanted to reach Havre before her 
that she might see him upon the quay. But when 
they were opposite Vasouy, a small steamer was 
ahead of them: it was from Trouville. Casimir mount- 
ed the foot-bridge and asked the captain which would 
arrive first. 

“She has the wind and tide in her favor; we are 
going against the tide, she will be at the quay 
ten minutes ahead of us.” 

Indeed when they arrived, the steamer from Trou- 
ville had landed all her passengers and was taking on 
others for the return trip. 

Taking a carriage on the quay the Prince was driven 
rapidly to Frascati's. The room occupied by “Mme. 
Germain” was pointed out to him. In a moment he 
was with her. She cast herself into his arms and re- 
mained clasped in his embrace for several minutes 
without being able to utter a syllable. At length 
she said: “Micheline?” 

He gave her all the details relative to the finding 
of the child. 

“And you? Tell me of yourself!” said he when he 
had finished his story. 

What could she say? Should she analyze her sen- 
sations when she heard her child cry and could not 
approach her, when she heard those cries die away in 
the distance and she could not follow her? Should 
she explain what she had suffered when she returned 
to Trouville alone, blinded by tears, prostrated with 
despair. 

Then he began to comfort, or rather, to reassure 


MICHELINE 


67 


her. Matters had turned out better than they dared 
hope, at least for Micheline. In reality she would not 
be put out to nurse, she would be brought up near 
her father by an excellent nurse. He would see her 
every and often several times daily. During the 
winter he would arrange to go to Hopsore every 
week. 

“You are right,” said Germaine; “pardon my ma- 
ternal selfishness, it is that which revolts and pro- 
tests. ” 

“Just as my love revolts and protests against our 
separation. ” 

“How we are punished! If that were only the last 
blow!” 

“And what could strike us more cruelly?” 

“I do not know, I am afraid.” She shuddered. “It 
seems to me that the hand of death is upon us,” said 
she. 

“Chase away such thoughts; your health is re-estab- 
lished, I have never been ill; you are twenty-four, I 
am thirty. Micheline is a fine child, she drew a cry 
of admiration from the nurse; why do you think an- 
other blow will fall upon us?” 

“Because we have merited it.” 

Neither of them knew when the steamer started 
the next day, whether in the morning or evening. 

He went to find out and to secure a cabin for Ger- 
maine; the steamer left in the morning at half past 
eight. They had therefore only a few hours to spend 
together; those hours were sad ones, for, notwith- 
standing the efforts she made to drive away her an- 


68 


MICHELINE 


guish, to listen to, to believe the words of confidence 
he uttered, her heart would not be comforted. 

“What memories I shall leave you!” said she. 
“When one loves, the unhappy days are forgotten and 
only the blissful ones are remembered. How many 
bright ones have we to recall!” 

The next morning at eight o’clock he conducted her 
on board the “Guadeloupe,” and as they did not wish 
to have the other passengers witness their emotion, 
they remained in the cabin which Germaine was to 
occupy during the journey, until the signal was given 
that the vessel was about to leave the quay. They 
must part! For the last time, she cast herself into 
his arms, for the last time he pressed her to his breast, 
then he turned and fled. When he reached the “sa- 
loon” through which he had to pass, he heard a last 
cry, a last prayer: “Micheline!” 

Then he stood upon the quay and watched the ves- 
sel steam slowly down the channel. At the stern a 
white handkerchief fluttered; it was she, waving him 
her final farewell; he raised his hat and with eyes 
filled with tears, he saw the “Guadeloupe” glide along. 

He fancied that she moved her lips, that she uttered 
one last appeal, but her words he did not hear; they 
were drowned in the noise of the billows. 


X 


A steamer left for Trouville at half past nine. The 
Prince arrived in time to take it; at eleven, he was 
at Hopsore. 

He was in no mood to listen to remarks, allusions 
or criticisms. 

“I could not come any sooner,” said he quickly. 

His wife was not vexed, but continued: ‘T wanted 
to tell you that you have just arrived in time to reply 
to the questions regarding the finding of the child.” 

“What questions?” 

“Those of the police commissioner, who came this 
morning and whom I have not seen. I sent him word 
that you would return some time during the day. The 
priest was here too.” 

“What did he want?” 

“To baptize the baby.” 

“What? To baptize her?” Then he added: “If she 
is two months old, it seems to me that she should at 
least be baptized. She cannot have been — that is 
true. ” 

In making that concession an idea presented itself 
to him of which he had not thought before; it was 
to profit by that baptism to give his daughter the 
name of Micheline. 


69 


70 


MICHELINE 


“What did you say to the priest?” he asked. 

“I sent him word that we would come to see him 
when you returned. ” 

“We will go at once.” 

“After you left, I had a visit from Philbert, who, 
of course, had to be coaxed to let his wife nurse the 
babe. ‘He did not want to see his poor wife wear 
herself out; he needed her, and he would not kill her 
in order to make money — and then the child was of 
unknown parentage.’ For fifty francs, he was afraid 
of killing his wife; for sixty, with a little urging, he 
had no fears at all. ‘If Madame takes the place of 
its mother, it will no longer be a foundling.’ So the 
matter is settled.” 

During lunch, the Prince returned to the subject of 
the baptism, in a casual way, as if he attached very 
little importance to it, and merely mentioned it in 
order to have something to say. 

“Have you decided anything about the little one’s 
baptism?” he asked with an indifferent air. 

“No.” 

“I would like to settle upon the godfather, thegod^ 
mother and the name; the priest will ask us about 
those things.” He spoke lightly. 

The Princess replied gravely, seriously: “Have you 
thought of that poor child on your journey, my friend? 
Do you know that its fate is very sad and arouses 
pity? Here is a child who, judging by its clothes as 
well as by the care it has received, has been born in 
a certain station, perhaps a high one. 1 do not know 
if you have noticed its clothes?” 


MICHELINE 


71 


“No.” 

“Well, the lace on its bonnet, the embroidery on 
its cloak, its silk vest, betray a wealthy mother. 
For reasons of which we do not know, and of which 
we shall no doubt never know, that poor child has 
been taken from its mother — for I will never believe 
that a mother would voluntarily desert her child— -and. 
to-day it is a foundling. What will be its life if its 
parents never claim it — and that is possible, is it not?” 

“Assuredly, for she is probably a little English 
girl, or a little Italian who has been left here that she 
may not be traced. ” 

“Then she will always be a foundling; that is a 
pity. I too, have had time to think about her since 
yesterday, and it seems to me that it would be quite 
a help to her if she could have Prince Sobolewski 
for her godfather.” 

“What a noble heart you have!” he cried in a voice 
which betrayed deep emotion. 

“Are you willing then?” she asked, delighted at his 
kind words. 

“I am more than willing!” No sooner had the 
words escaped him than he regretted them. He could 
not be Micheline^s godfather unless his wife was her 
godmother, and that from all points of view would be 
odious, as odious for his wife as for Germaine, her 
daughter and himself. He had not time to think it 
over and to devise some means of retracting his prom- 
ise, for she continued : 

“I suppose you would like to have me for god- 
mother; I shall be charmed,” 


72 


MICHELINE 


He could not draw back; the plans must be carried 
out, and since affairs had taken that turn, it might be 
well to take advantage of that opportunity to give the 
child the name of Micheline. How he had maneuvered 
to obtain that name! The baptism relieved him of 
all embarrassment and difficulty. It was the duty of 
the godfather to give a name to his god-child, and it 
would be quite natural that he should choose his 
own. 

“You have anticipated my desire,” said he, “we 
will be the child^s godfather- and godmother. Do 
you know that I have never been a godfather?” 

“How lucky!” 

“And yet I have wished to be more than once!” 

“Indeed !” 

“And you would never guess why, for the reason is 
so puerile: Simply to give to a child a name which 
I like.” 

“What name?” 

“Micheline. ” 

“That is like yours; Michel, Micheline.” 

“I do not think so; there is a Saint Micheline who 
had no connection with Saint Michel. Moreover 
Michel is an ugly name, while Micheline is charm- 
ing.” 

“Since you like it so much, would you not rather 
reserve it?” 

“For whom?“ 

She dared not reply for whom, and say frankly for 
their child, for in spite of everything she could not 
renounce the hope of havittg a child, saying that God 


MICHELINE 


73 


to whom she prayed daily for one, had been k.nd 
enough to give her her husband. 

“For Carola’s child,” said she. “You will surely be 
her godfather.” 

“Then we will give her a family name. Do not let 
us reserve that of Micheline, but let me have the 
pleasure of bestowing it upon that little one." 

That would have been the first time she had found 
a desire of her husband’s distasteful. Moreover the 
joy at being godmother with the Prince left her room 
for no other thoughts than of the baptism; the bells 
rang, she threw bonbons and pieces of money to the 
children; she fancied herself in the dress made for 
the occasion and which she had already designed. 
She described that toilette to him, but he did not 
heed her ; his elbows upon the table, his chin in his 
hand, he sat there, his eyes fastened upon the dark 
clouds which rose from behind Mont Can^sy, and his 
thoughts were afar off in the west, following the 
“Guadeloupe,” already in mid-ocean, no doubt in the 
storm which was rising. 

Notwithstanding the threatening aspect of the sky, 
the Princess was desirous of going to the priest’s 
after lunch: because she had not been able to receive 
him in the morning, she insisted upon returning his 
call. 

She had never been religious, and even in the time 
of Beaumoussel, who was a Voltairian, she to a cer- 
tain point shared her husband’s views; but on be- 
coming a Princess she thought she must adopt the 
principles practiced by persons of rank, and accord to 


74 


MICHELINE 


the members of the clergy the public marks of defer- 
ence to which they were entitled from a well-born 
dame. 

“Let us pay those visits this morning,” said she, 
“if you are going out later on.” 

“I hope I shall not have to go out to-day nor to-mor- 
row, but that I can remain quietly here.” 

She had succeeded then! Would she have obtained 
the same result by harshness or violence? 

The visit to the priest was short; they decided that 
the baptisrh take place the following day “because 
with children one never could tell what might hap- 
pen. ” 

At the mayoralty their stay was more lengthy; the 
mayor and the schoolmaster, who fulfilled the function 
of registrar, had never had to draw up a foundling’s 
certificate of birth. They were both puzzled and per- 
plexed at having to prepare the detailed official report 
demanded by the law. 

“Detailed,” said the mayor, consulting Code. 

“With the circumstances of time and place,” said 
the registrar, reading after the mayor. 

Fortunately one of the provisions of the law came 
to their aid. “The child must be delivered up to an 
officer of the law,” said the mayor, “as well as the 
clothes and other effects found with it; or since you 
intend assuming the care of it, it must be brought to 
us with its clothes that they may be described in the 
detailed official report.” 

It was agreed that that presentation should take 
place the fpllpwing day before the baptism, which ar- 


MICHELINE 


75 


rangement was accepted very eagerly by the mayor, for 
the respite would permit him to hasten to Pont-P 
Ev^que to consult the sub-prefect. 

The clouds were darker, the wind had risen; the 
Prince and his wife had not reached home when the 
storm, which had been threatening for more than an 
hour, broke over the valley. 

“If the storm does not become too violent,” said 
the Princess, “I will have the carriage brought around 
that I may go to Trouville to order a layette for 
Micheline; will you accompany me?” 

“Gladly.” 

But they did not set out at once, for on reaching 
the castle'they found the police-commissioner awaiting 
them. 

The Prince told his story and the Princess confirmed 
it. 

“You did not see anyone in the grove?” 

“No one.’/ 

“Perhaps you did not look about you very care- 
fully. ” 

The Princess replied that she had done more than 
look about her carefully, that she had hunted about, 
fancying that the child had been deposited at the 
foot of the tree by a nurse who was walking in the 
woods. 

“Do you often go out by the gate which leads into 
the forest?” asked the commissioner. 

“Very rarely.” 

“So that those who placed the child in the path 
could not be certain that you would find it.” 


76 


MICHELINE 


“We oftea did not take that road for a week or two 
at a time.” 

In her turn the Princess interrogated the commis- 
sioner to know if he had any hope of discovering those 
who had abandoned the babe. 

“We are on their track!” 

“Ah! How fortunate for the child!” exclaimed 
the Princess. 

Casimir said nothing, but if the commissioner had 
glanced at him at that moment, he would have been 
struck by his confusion at those words. 

Neither Germaine nor he had thought that the po- 
lice would inquire into the matter, and it had been 
solely on his wife’s account that the Prince had taken 
precautions. 

“We have the deposition of the coachman who took 
into the forest the two women who left the child, 
very probably a lady and her nurse, and from his de- 
scription of them, we will find out, I hope, where they 
took the train after deserting the infant." 

“I think we have done well to fix the baptism for 
to-morrow,” said the Princess when the commissioner 
had gone, “for, by waiting, we might have run the 
risk of being deprived of the pleasure of being god- 
father and godmother.” 

It was indeed a pleasure for her; what a pleasure 
the entire village witnessed at the church door! 
Those who saw her throw sugar-plums and ten sou 
pieces to the children while the bells chimed, felt 
convinced that she was the happiest woman in the 
world. 


MICHELIhJE 


77 


The castle servants who were not detained at home 
by pressing work, went down to the village to “assist” 
at the ceremony. Regina stood upon the porch with 
Saint-Denis, the footman, without mingling with the 
crowd. 

“See the poor Princess,” said she in a low voice 
to her companion, “how happy she is! She does not 
5uspect that the little one is probably the Princess 
daughter.” 

“Is that possible. Mile. Regina?” 

“No doubt of it, M. Saint-Denis! ” 

But their conversation was interrupted, for the Prin- 
cess approached to enter her carriage, for, although it 
was only a ten minutes’ walk from the castle to the 
church, she had wanted to attend that fete in her gala 
coach, with the coachman and footman in livery, and 
horses gayly caparisoned. She made room on one of 
the seats for Mme. Philbert, who carried the child, 
while the Prince seated himself beside his wife. 

The horses started off and the Princess threw out 
a last handful of silver. 


XI 


Casimir was very much annoyed by the police in- 
quiries. Although it seemed to him impossible that 
in Mme. Haronis who had embarked alone on the 
“Gaudeloupe” they should recognize Mme. Germain 
who had spent a night at Frascati’s, and still more 
impossible that they should recognize in Mme. Ger- 
main the Mme. Rosier who had spent three days at 
the Hotel (V Albion with her baby and nurse, he was 
none the less uneasy. 

When matters seemed so well arranged for Michel- 
ine would the police spoil all by their inquiries? 
Fortunately they were on a false trail — that of two 
women answering to the description given by the 
coachman at Trouville, two women who had taken the 
train at Pont-P Eveque with tickets for Paris. Where 
should they seek them in Paris? The desertion 
seemed to have been voluntary; no complaints had 
been made; the affair would bear no results. 

When the Princess heard that, she was delighted. 

“At one time I wanted Michel ine to find her parents, 
but now I should feel sorry could she not remain 
with us. How would she be treated by her parents? 
Probably unkindly, judging by their desertion of her, 
while with us, she will be well cared for. And I must 
confess I should miss her. I am already attached to 

78 


MICHELINB 


7D 

her; she is a nice child and will develop into a fine 
girl. Is not that your opinion?” 

That was assuredly Casimir^s opinion, but he could 
not avow it. 

“You are not a good godfather!” 

“What should I do?” 

“If it were only on account of the pretty name of 
Micheline which you have given her, you should love 
her.” 

When he had conceived the idea of putting Michel- 
ine out to nurse with the forester’s wife he had only 
perceived the advantages resulting from the scheme 
to the child, Germaine and himself; they were such 
that he had not considered the disadvantages. 

Upon reflection, upon the intervention of the police, 
he ^became aware of them, even of the danger, and 
aware also of the fact that he had been imprudent in 
advocating such a plan to Germaine, since it is true 
that one no sooner issues from one false position than 
one sinks into another still more false. 

After having installed Micheline with the forester’s 
wife, she would have to be taken away again when 
Germaine returned to France, and that could not be 
easily done. 

Germaine would have to present herself and de- 
mand her daughter; what claims would she have to 
offer? ‘T am her mother!” But they would reply 
that being a married woman, she could not be the 
mother of a child of which her husband was not the 
father; and, on the other hand, they would accuse her 
of having deserted the child she reclaimed. 


80 


MiCHELlNB 


They would then have to resort to underhand means, 
and by some strategy obtain Micheline from her nurse's 
house, as by strategy she had been placed there. 

Casimir was therefore very circumspect in his re- 
plies when his wife spoke to him of Micheline, and 
often he did not reply at all. 

“You have certainly,” she often said, “no love for 
children. ” 

It was with vexation that she at times observed his 
lack of affection for children, but still it in a measure 
consoled her; since he did not love children, it was 
very natural that he should not want any, and that 
explained many things. Perhaps that little one 
would awaken that sentiment within him. 

He hoped that the arrival of his brothers and sisters 
at the castle, as well as the preparations for Carola's 
marriage, would divert his wife and keep her from 
thinking of Micheline; but such was not the case. 
Proud of her “find,” as she termed it, she wanted to 
show it to everyone and to have everyone admire it. 

“Come and see my find,” she said to each arrival. 

As if that were not enough, his sisters took a fancy 
to Micheline, and Hedwige, who was much younger in 
her manners than in years, played with her as she 
would have played with a doll; dressing her, un- 
dressing her, curling her hair, spending hours at the 
forester's house. 

When she returned, she scolded her brother for his 
indifference. 

“How is it that you do not love that little thing?” 
said she. “She is so sweet!" 


MICHELINE 


81 


"Do you hear, my friend?” said the Princess. 

"Would you like me to play nurse-maid?” 

"Why not?” said Wanda. "You found her too.” 

He could visit the forester’s house as often as he 
wished to without anyone finding fault with him; on 
the contrary all were pleased. 

"Casimir has been to see his charge to-day,” said 
Hedwige. 

When he was alone with Micheline, he too would 
admire her, and would seek for some feature which re- 
minded him of Germaine, and would admit, as every- 
one else did, that she was a fine child — how much 
dearer to him than to anyone else! Because he was 
obliged to clothe his love in a kind of indifference, 
he loved her none the less tenderly in his heart. Yes, 
she would develop into a pretty girl, he felt assured 
as he watched her smile; might she become as affec- 
tionate and tender a woman as her mother! 

When, at the end of October, there was some talk 
of returning to Paris, he invented pretexts which 
would enable him to return to Hopsore often during 
the winter. 

Since the Princess had been in the habit of visiting 
the forester’s house so frequently, she became more 
and more persuaded that a pavilion was indispensable 
in a certain spot which she had chosen. The Prince 
had always opposed that idea; but, two or three days 
before their departure, he declared that he had been 
in the wrong and that he too thought that a pavilion 
was absolutely necessary. It must therefore be built 
during the winter, in order that it might be completed 
6 


82 


MICHELINE 


by July; at the same time some work should be done 
in the way of drainage, and that it might be done 
well, he would come from time to time to superin- 
tend the work. 

He came regularly every week, arriving in the morn- 
ing and leaving again at night. When on preceding 
years he had taken that short journey he had always 
dined at Trouville, but that year he asked Mme. Phil- 
bert to prepare him a dinner, and when the workmen 
were gone, he installed himself in the kitchen of the 
forester’s house before a large fire. There he dined 
on a piece of boiled beef or broiled meat, while Mme. 
Philbert, having Micheline in her arms, waited upon 
him, and as he ate, he talked of the child: 

“How has she been since last time? How much 
does she weigh? She has gained a pound in two weeks? 
That is excellent!” And on taking his departure he 
paid liberally for the pound gained. If the Princess 
had heard and seen him, she would not again have 
accused him of not caring for children. His solicitude 
was, as yet, a matter of indifference to Micheline, but 
how sweet it was to Germaine, exiled in her desert, 
where she had found matters such that she could not 
then think of returning. Her husband was seriously 
ill, and she, to avoid absolute ruin, had ta attend to 
the matters which he had on hand. 

The letters sent her by Casimir were full of tender- 
ness and love, and her replies were so grateful, so 
joyful, so impassioned, that to give her that pleasure, 
he would have gone to Hopsore even had the child not 
attracted him thither. He thought that when they 


MICHELINE 


83 


returned in July, his wife’s caprice would have passed 
over, and that she would no longer care for the child, 
but in that he was mistaken. 

In July, the baby walked alone; she was cutting her 
first tooth, and her fancy for the child was redoubled. 
At the same time she made propositions with regard 
to her. The time had come to wean her; what would 
they do with her afterward? They could not leave 
her with Mme. Philbert when she no longer required 
a nurse. Should they not take her to the castle? It 
would be so interesting to watch her grow and de- 
velop; did they not owe her a duty? 

If Germaine had fixed upon the date of her return 
to France, Casimir would not have entertained that 
proposition at all; but in his uncertainty, he could 
neither reject nor accept it, and he replied vaguely 
without committing himself: “We shall see; later 
on we will decide; there is plenty of time.” 

Summer glided by and autumn came; still no de- 
cision had been arrived at. Micheline was a very 
pretty little girl, very merry, very vivacious, very 
noisy and very audacious, a girl whom the Princess 
worshiped and whom the Prince loved in secret, while 
outwardly he manifested a certain affection for her. 

“He is growing to like children,” thought his wife; 
“I was sure that that little one would bring us good 
luck!” 

She was still hopeful: if he loved a child who was 
merely a stranger, would he not love a. child of his 
own? 


XII 


That which rendered the Princess^ hopes explicable 
to a certain point was her husband’s manner toward 
her; never had he been so kind, so affectionate, so 
attentive! A young man could not have been more 
loving, more careful of the wife he had married a 
week before. 

Of course she was forty-five, but who knew it? Cer- 
tainly he did not! ^ 

She no longer worried about his absences, and when 
he went out, she did not watch for his departure nor 
for his return. Why should she torment herself? 
His life was like an open book; nothing was clearer 
than the way in which he spent his time. 

Meanwhile he went out alone almost daily — in the 
morning on horseback, in the afternoon on foot, going 
straight ahead into the heart of the forest, sometimes 
at a gallop as if in haste, sometimes slowly as if in a 
dream, seeing no one whom he met. In his walks, 
now when he set out, now when he returned, and 
sometimes both on setting out and returning, he 
passed through the gate leading into the forest; and 
he always made a stopping-place of the forester’s 
house, which gave him an opportunity of embracing 
Micheline, for the child now came to him as soon as 

84 


MICHELINE 


86 


she saw him, and of herself without awaiting her 
nurse’s orders asked him for a kiss. When he called 
her by name she always replied, “Paiu, ” or “Pau,” and 
hanging to his coat-tails if he were on foot, she would 
put her hand in his pockets, in which she was sure to 
find a toy or some dainty. If he were on horsebacl: 
she cried “Dada! ” until he bade Mme. Philbert lift 
her into the saddle, when she set about her examina- 
tion of him with the same equanimity as if she had 
been upon terra-firma, uttering exclamations of delight 
when she found a gift which pleased her, and soon 
after slipping down to show it to her foster brothers 
or to share it with them. 

One October morning he drew up on horseback at 
the forester’s house, and Micheline, who was playing 
near the gate, began to cry: “Dada, dada!” as soon 
as she perceived him. As her language was familiar 
to her nurse, the woman took her in her arms to 
hand her to her “Paiu,” but contrary to his usual 
custom, the horse, feeling the child’s feet upon his 
shoulder, made a brusque movement, and as Casimir 
tried to bring him back, he reared. 

“Micheline, no dada to day,” said the Prince. 

But Mile. Micheline had a will of Jher own and be- 
gan to stamp her feet, crying: “Dada! dada!” 

The Prince signed to Philbert to take his horse by 
the bridle; but on seeing the forester approach and 
divining his intention, the animal reared again. How- 
ever Philbert finally seized him firmly by the bit and 
held him. 

“It will not be prudent to take the child in the sad- 


86 


MICHELINE 


die to-day,” said he, ’’the beast is ill natured.” 

Then the Prince swung himself from the saddle and 
approaching Micheline, he took her in his arms, 
kissed and caressed her and suffered her to put her 
hand in his pockets from which she drew forth a box 
filled with chocolate. He tarried several minutes in 
order to watch her open the box and taste a bonbon, 
then, having kissed her again, he mounted his horse 
and started off. 

“Au revoir, Micheline!" 

Philbert, as he watched him disappear in the dis- 
tance said: "It is a strange idea to mount those 
beasts when one has legs." And he began to gather 
the wood his wife needed for the day. 

Fifteen minutes after the Prince had gone, Michel- 
ine, who was playing at the gate, cried: "Dada, 
dada! " Thinking that the Prince had returned, Mme. 
Philbert ran to open the gate; but she saw the horse 
without any rider, his breast covered with mud. 

In affright she called her husband. 

"Some accident has surely befallen the Prince. Go 
into the forest and seel’ 

Philbert set out at once, but he did not go far; at a 
short distance horn the beech beneath which Michel- 
ine was found, he saw the Prince stretched upon the 
path, face downward. 

He turned him over and raised him, but he was un- 
conscious, his limbs hung lifelessly, his eyelids were 
closed; however, he was not dead for he uttered a 
sort of groan. 

Philbert looked at him a moment debating as to 


MICHELINE 


87 


what he should do; his hat lying upon the ground 
told how the accident had happened: his horse had 
fallen and its rider, thrown forward, fell upon his 
head. 

The forester was a strong, vigorous man; he took 
his master in his arms and carried him to his cottage. 

“Is he dead?” anxiously cried Mme. Philbert, on 
seeing him with that tall form in his arms. 

“I do not know; help me to put him on the bed; 
rub him with whisky, make him take a good swallow. 
I am going to tell the Princess,” and he started off 
by the shortest road to the castle. 

The Princess, on his arrival, was dressing, and 
Philbert had to force the doors to reach her. 

“What is it, Philbert?” 

“It is — an accident has happened, Madame!” 

“Micheline! ” she cried. 

“It is not the child, it is the Prince; he fell from 
his horse.” 

She uttered a shriek. “Tell me the truth, is he 
dead?” 

“He is not dead, but he is hurt. I carried him to 
my cottage.” 

“Let us go!” she cried, and without heeding that 
one of her cheeks was pink and the other white, she 
rushed out of her dressing-room, followed by the for- 
ester, who advised Regina to send for a doctor. 

The Princess had never ascended to the forester^ s 
house by that short cut; it had been too steep for her, 
but she climbed it that day without any hesitation. 

The Prince was stretched on the bed upon which 


88 


MICHELINE 


Philbert had laid him; he had not regained conscious- 
ness. 

The Princess flung herself upon him and remained 
there sometime weeping, moaning. 

“He is not dead,” said the forester’s wife. “Do 
not worry, he will be all right.” 

But she heard nothing; it was only when the in- 
jured man uttered a feeble moan that she grew calmer. 

The doctor finally arrived and pronounced it a case 
of concussion of the brain; the case was serious but 
not hopeless. The Prince could not be moved to the 
castle, he must be cared for in that room, at least 
until there was some change for the better. That 
change did not come; for three days the Prince did 
not gain consciousness, he did not open his eyes, and 
when they raised his lids the pupils looked large and 
fixed. In order to give him nourishment, a nursing 
bottle was put between his lips, for only liquids 
would pass down his throat. 

The Princess had summoned the most prominent 
physicians, who coincided with the doctor from Trou- 
ville: his condition was critical, encephalitis was to 
be feared. 

The third day there seemed to be a change; up to 
that time he had not heard what was said around him, 
but lay upon the bed motionless and inert. However, 
on the third day as the Princess was giving orders 
to Philbert, they thought he understood what was 
being said. 

Since the accident the Princess was tormented by 
a thought which weighed upon her day and night 



,, His limbs hung lifelessly, hiseyc'lids were closed . — Page 86. 




MICHELINE 


89 


like a nightmare. What should she do with the 
horse which had caused the accident? The first day 
she had condemned him to death. But not liking to 
yield to a sentiment of vengeance, she had for one day 
weighed the pro and con of her judgment. The pro 
had prevailed, and she gave the order to Philbert to 
have him killed before himself and Saint Denis by a 
man accustomed to slaughtering horses without caus- 
ing them suffering. 

That order had seemed so absurd to the forester, 
who knew the value of money, that he attempted to 
remonstrate: “So fine an animal! Why, one could 
surely sell him for three or four thousand francs.** 

“He must not be sold, for he might cause a misfort- 
une similar to the one he has just caused, and I should 
be responsible. If the Prince recovers, and I 
hope he will, he' will want to ride him again. If 
he does not recover, the horse merits a hundred 
deaths!’* 

It was at the close of that conversation that the 
Prince had shown signs of consciousness, but signs so 
faint that the doctor could not share the Princess’ 
transport of delight. 

It remained to be seen; inflammation was still to 
be feared. 

The following day, Casimir opened his eyes and 
recognized those around him; he cast an affectionate 
glance at his wife, who wept for joy: as she kissed 
his hand, he passed the tips of his fingers over her 
cheek caressingly. 

As he moved his lips and uttered several intelligi- 


90 


MICHELINE 


ble sounds, she rose to listen and to try to under- 
stand him. 

“You hear me, do you not?“ she asked. 

He closed his eyes in token of assent. 

“What did you want? If you cannot tell me, try 
to make a sign that I may understand.*’ 

He seemed to make an effort, and that time his 
lips articulated a name, a word partly formed: 

“Michel.” 

“You want Micheline?” 

He made a sign in the affirmative. She called the 
child, who was playing before the cottage. She 
came in at once, for during the past three days she 
had asked every instant to see her *‘paiu.” 

He put his hand upon her head and stroked her hair, 
then turning his eyes toward his wife, he addressed 
a mute demand to her which she comprehended. 

“Do you want to embrace her?” 

”Yes. ” 

She took the child in her arms and held her toward 
him; but it was the child who embraced the man. 
That was not, however, all that he wanted, for when 
his wife had put the little one on the floor, he uttered 
her name again, “Micheline,” and made a sign, but so 
vague a one that she could not divine its meaning. 

“Watch,” said he. 

“You want me to watch over her?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do not excite yourself thus; you are better, you 
will soon be well; you will watch over her yourself.” 

He closed his eyes as if to signify that there was 


MICHELINE 


91 


no hope, then he repeated several times: “Watch, 
watch.” He uttered other words, he made other 
signs. But the words were so indistinct, so incom- 
plete, the signs so doubtful, that she could not un- 
derstand them. She tried to question him, but he 
made a sign that he was exhausted and could say no 
more. 

That evening he became delirious, encephalitis set 
in, then the delirium left him; it was followed by a 
stupor, and four days later he died. 


END OF PART FIRST. 


9 





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I 


A description of Trouville in the summer season 
need not be given; everyone is familiar with the board- 
walk built out on the sands, which corresponds to the 
dyke at Ostend and to the pier at Brighton; with 
the pavilion on the shore where daily for six weeks 
can be seen the most striking, eccentric, elegant and 
ridiculous toilettes. 

It was with difficulty one August afternoon that one 
could make one's way along that walk, obstructed as 
it was by the trains of dresses and by umbrellas, and 
it was still more difficult to find a vacant chair in the 
pavilion, or in its shade. 

However, two women, one in mourning and very dis- 
tinguished in appearance, the other a Norman peasant, 
sought to enter that pavilion, casting about them 
glances in which curiosity could be plainly read, while 
in the eyes of the lady in black lurked an expression 
of intense excitement. 

Not succeeding in making their way through the 
barricade of chairs and trains, they turned back to the 
sands and walked around the pavilion in a radius in 
which circulation was less difficult. 

“Do you not see her?” asked the lady in mourning. 

“No.” 

“Perhaps you would not recognize her?” 

95 


96 


MICHELINE 


“Do not say that, madame; one cannot forget her 
having once seen her; moreover she strongly resembles 
the Prince; you would know her yourself. The Princess’ 
coach is waiting upon the shore, so Mile. Micheline 
must be playing upon the sand as is her daily custom.” 

“Are you sure you recognized the arms?” 

“Quite sure. Come, let us see.” 

At some distance from the pavilion on the sand from 
which the tide had receded, four young girls of ten or 
eleven years of age were playing croquet; not far from 
them a group of ladies in elegant toilettes were seated, 
watching their game; still farther on, a little to one 
side sat a woman, to all appearances a nurse, reading 
a magazine. 

“I think she is playing down there,” said the Nor- 
man peasant. 

“Do you see her?” 

“Try to calm yourself, madame, or everyone will 
observe 3"our emotion; you are fairly trembling! ” 

“I shall not betray myself.” 

“At least lower your veil, you are as pale as a 
ghost. ” 

“That would prevent me from seeing her.” 

As they spoke they advanced, and they could hear 
the sound of the mallets more plainly and could dis- 
tinguish the children’s features. 

“That is she,” said the peasant, “the youngest over 
there at the farthest stake.” 

The woman designated a girl of about ten, with a 
face rosy with health and life, tall, large for her age, 
with a graceful form and pretty, fair curls floating 


MICHBLINE 


97 


over her shoulders. She was dressed tastefully and 
elegantly in a frock of white poplin with a moire sash; 
she wore a large hat with a waving plume upon it, 
her arms and legs were bare, while her hands were 
encased in Suede gloves. Though her arms and legs 
were of a bright pinkish tint, her face was very pale; 
that at the first glance was incomprehensible, for one 
could not account for the pallor of that face with its 
rounded cheeks, when the limbs appeared of so healthy 
a color. 

"Oh, Madame Germaine,” murmured the peasant, 
"let us advance slowly. Take time to regain your 
composure; you are trembling, you are weeping; 
some one will observe your emotion! The Princess’ 
maid is putting aside her paper in order to look at 
you. ” 

Indeed the woman had laid her magazine upon a 
chair in front of her, and taking off her eyeglasses, 
she glanced at the new-comers. 

"If you wish,” said the peasant, "I will go in search 
of chairs; you can then sit down, for unless you do 
so you will not regain your self-possession.” 

They seated themselves facing the players and the 
Princess’ maid resumed her book. 

Of the four children, Micheline was evidently the 
liveliest, the noisiest, and, although she was the young- 
est, it was she who enlivened and led the game; hv;;r 
clear voice, her exclamations of triumph when she had 
played well, of anger when she failed, her cries, her 
laughter swayed the others; by the manner in which 
she handled her mallet or ran after her ball, cne 
7 


98 


MICHELINE 


could see the firmness of a character overflowing with 
animation and good-nature. 

“How pretty she is!” murmured Germaine. 

“You see I did not deceive you in my letters; un- 
fortunately when one has had no education one can 
not express oneself as one would like to, but when I 
told you that she looked like the Prince that should 
have given you an idea of her.” 

“I did not think the resemblance would be so great; 
she has the same hair, the same eyes, the same frank, 
open air.” 

“She is certainly a fine girl, only why is she pale? 
She was not so last year. We will draw nearer her 
when you have regained your self-control. You will 
be able to see her better.” 

Suddenly a ball shot with force by one of the young 
girls rolled to their side and Michel ine, to whom it 
belonged, exclaimed: “Ah, that was croqueted too 
hard; you have sent me out of the world! ” 

The ball had rolled under Germaine’s chair. 

“Do not stop that ball!” cried the girl who had 
sent it thither. 

It was too late; the ball had become entangled in 
the folds of Germaine’s dress and stopped rolling. 

Micheline, mallet in hand, rushed up, and without 
looking at Germaine, seeing only her ball, she cried: 
“Do not move, madame. ” 

But Germaine had already arisen and had picked 
up the ball. 

“Here it is, my child,” said she. 

Those two words, “my child,” were uttered with 


MICHELINE 


99 


such feeling, such passion, that Micheline in surprise 
glanced at her who had spoken so sweetly, but her in- 
terest in the game soon overcame her astonishment. 

“Thank you, madame, “ said she, and taking her 
mallet in both hands she sent the ball back to the 
arches with one blow. Then without even turning her 
head toward Germaine she followed her ball, bran- 
dishing her mallet with an air of triumph. 

“What life! What health!” said Germaine when 
the child was gone. “She spoke to me, Eugenie, she 
spoke to me.” 

“Did you see her pale face?” 

“It is nothing; or rather it is not so serious as I 
thought it was, for that pallor is due to rice-powder.” 

Their conversation was interrupted; a group of 
promenaders paused near them to watch the players. 

“That little rogue is Princess Sobolewski,” said 
one of the young people of the group. 

“Say rather that she is Princess Sobolewski^s ward, ” 
replied another. “In reality she is a foundling whom 
the Princess has adopted; that fact has rendered the 
Princess^ family as well as that of the Prince very 
uneasy; they talk of taking action against the Prin- 
cess’ sanity.” 

At that moment a cry was heard. “I am out again,” 
cried Micheline. 

“How boisterous she is!” said one of the ladies. 

“And how spoilt!” cried another, shrugging her 
shoulders with pity. “They tell incredible stories of 
her. ” 

They walked on and Germaine heard no more. 


100 


MICHELINE 


Micheline’s side won. 

“Another!” cried Micheline. 

At that moment the princess’ maid, who had left 
her chair, took several steps forward and called Mich- 
eline. 

“Very well, I am coming!” said the child, making 
no effort, however, to go. 

“Mile. Micheline! Mile. Micheline!” 

She turned toward Regina haughtily. 

“What do you want?” she asked. 

“It is time to go home.” 

“We have still a game to play.” 

“You must not remain.” 

Micheline stamped her foot. “We will not be 
long,” said she. 

“The Princess will be angry.” 

“That is my affair.” 

“It is mine too. Come!” 

“Do you know that you are annoying me?” cried 
Micheline. 

“I do not care. Come! ” 

Micheline, although furious, made no reply, but 
turning her back upon her nurse, she rejoined her 
companions. 

“I cannot play,” said she, “that nuisance, Regina, 
wants to go home.” 

Exclamations of dissatisfaction were uttered by the 
defeated part3^ 

“If you will come to-morrow at the same time,” 
said Micheline, addressing her opponents, “I will 
give you your revenge.” 


MICHELINE 


101 


The children consulted a moment, and Micheline's 
proposition was accepted. 

Then they shook hands ceremoniously. 

“To-morrow, Baroness.” 

“To-morrow, Princess.” 

Micheline turned to the girl who had been her part- 
ner: “If you like, Jeanne, I can leave you at your 
door as we pass. My carriage is waiting, we will take 
up your mother at the pavilion.” 

And she offered her arm to Mile. Jeanne as she 
spoke. 


II 


“Let us follow her,” said Germaine when she saw 
Micheline turn toward the pavilion. 

Arrived there, the children together with Jeanne’s 
mother, entered Micheline’s carriage which was await- 
ing them on Rue de la Mer — it was indeed amusing 
to see that girl of ten do the honors: 

“Enter, madame; enter, Jeanne, and I pray you 
take your seat beside your mother.” 

Not until her guests were seated, did she enter the 
carriage. 

“Villa des Pommiers, ” said she to the footman who 
stood at the door. 

The horses started off. When the coach disappeared 
at a turning, Germaine still stood motionlessly upon 
the side-walk. 

“Now, madame, what have you decided to do?” 
asked Eugenie. 

"I do not know. The few words which I heard 
upon the shore changed my opinions. I must con- 
sider. All will be arranged in time. You can return 
to Argentan whenever you like.” 

“Then I will go at once. My niece is not well, you 
know; I should be near her. If you should need me, 
you have only to drop me a line.” 

While Eugenie proceeded to the station, Germaine 
102 


MICHELINE 


103 


took the road leading from Hopsore. Walking along 
the dusty road with lowered head, she thought not 
only of what she should do, but of what she had just 
seen and heard. She had not expected to find a hand- 
somer child than the one she had seen upon the shore, 
nor a child more robust, more merry, more graceful; 
still on the other hand, she had not expected to find 
her powdered like an actress, as noisy as a street 
Arab, so absurdly mature in her manners and actions. 

How anxious had she been during the ten years that 
had glided by, how often had she fixed the date for 
her return. But it had been necessary to postpone 
her departure, for illness, law-suits and impending 
ruin had detained her in Chili. Could she desert her 
feeble, dying husband? When she had sinned against 
him as she had, could she add that crime to her error? 
Month succeeded month, year succeeded year, and her 
departure had been deferred. 

“The child is well taken care of,” said Eugenie in 
her letters; “she is growing, she will become hand- 
some and strong; the Princess treats her as her child. 
On the 4th of March, Saint Casimir’s day, I carried 
the bouquet to the Prince’s tomb, as you bade me. ” 

That woman, the Princess, had received Casimir’s 
last sigh and was basking in Michel ine’s smiles. 

After ten years of such torture, her husband’s death 
released her. For several thousand francs, one hun 
dredth part of what was legally due her, she made a 
settlement in her law-suit, and finally embarked for 
France. But having arrived in that country, all was 
not yet over. She had seen her child, she did not 


m 


MICHELINE 


have her. While the Prince lived, she had not been 
in the least uneasy; he had taken her child from her 
he would restore her to her; nothing was more sim- 
ple. 

With his death the situation had changed, without, 
however, presenting insurmountable obstacles; as 
strategy had been employed in placing Micheline at 
the castle, it would have to be employed to take her 
away. But after several years, matters grew more 
complicated. Having reached the age of fifty, and 
employing no means with which to hide her age the 
Princess had attached Micheline to her by means of 
the legal tie of guardianship, in order that she might 
liave control over the child. As time flew by, matters 
became still more complicated by this fact. Micheline 
was no longer a little, innocent creature with whom 
une could do what one wished; she had reason and 
will. 

How could she be taken from the Princess without 
an explanation, and how could she be made to com- 
prehend that aright? 

“1 am your mother.” 

“Why are you my mother just to-day?” 

What should she reply? Should she tell her the 
truth? 

But what sentiment would the child cherish toward 
the mother who had brought dishonor upon herself? 

Not finding any solution to her problem and not being 
able to consult anyone in Chili, she resolved that as 
soon as she reached France she would submit her case 
to a lawyer in order to find out what claims she had 


MICHELINE 


105 


upon her child, and what means the law afforded her 
of availing herself of them. 

But before all, she wanted to see her child, to feast 
her eyes upon her. Another reason which attracted 
her to Trouville, was the visit she wished to pay to 
the grave of him whom she had loved so dearly and 
had mourned so deeply. 

Although Beaumoussel thought so much of his native 
country, he did not wish to be interred in the ceme- 
tery at Hopsore; so BeamoussePs remains rested in a 
magnificent mausoleum at Pere Lachaise, while for 
the Prince and herself, the Princess had had erected 
in the little cemetery at Hopsore a mausoleum, which, 
though less showy, less pretentious than that of BeaU' 
moussel was a veritable work of art; the chapel was 
inclosed by an iron grating and in the center of that 
chapel was a high black marble sarcophagus with a 
life-sized figure in white marble at each of the four 
corners, representing Youth, Nobility, Liberality 
and Art. There was no name upon that tomb, but on 
the side toward the gate were the Sobolewski arms. 

When Germaine arrived at the entrance to the cem- 
etery, the sun was setting, its rays gilding the dome 
of the chapel. 

In the square several villagers were seated at their 
doors, others were drinking at tables which stood 
before the inn of V hnage Saint-Pierre. 

Germaine had thought that she would be alone; the 
presence of those people on the other §ide of the low 
wall, of those people who could see her and who 
watched her, annoyed her greatly. 


106 


MICHELINE 


She walked directly to the chapel, but the gate 
which led into it was locked; she could not even kneel 
before it; she had to maintain the attitude preserved 
by those who came to see the tomb out of simple curi- 
osity. Between him and her in death was that gate, 
as between him and her in life had been that woman. 
And notwithstanding her resolution to control herself 
and not to attract attention she leaned her head 
against the gate, and her past life rose before her: the 
dawn of their love at Cauterets, their happiness at 
Neuilly, their brief days of oblivion and of intoxica- 
tion in the very part of the county she was then in. 

She was vexed with herself for recalling those 
memories. It was not of hhn nor of herself that she 
should think, but of her daughter. It was not for 
her to ask: *‘Do you remember?” She should say: 
“Guide me; what do you wish for her, what shall I 
do?” 

With clasped hands, with a vague consciousness of 
the dangers which surrounded her, she murmured: 

“Speak, speak!” 

Her troubled eyes wandered from one to the other 
of those marble forms which in the shadow looked so 
mysterious. 

“You took my child, give her back to me! Inspire 
me!” Night crept on apace, but the inspiration did 
not come, 


Ill 


When Germaine left the cemetery, it was too late 
to return to Trouville. In surprise she looked about, 
not at all clear as to what to do. Before her gleamed 
the windows of the inn and on their panes she read: 
“Here food and lodging can be obtained. Cider from 
the Auge valley.” It then occurred to her to enter 
and ask for dinner. Nothing called her to Trouville; 
on the contrary, several reasons detained her in that 
village. Perhaps she could obtain some information 
from the servant who waited upon her. The inn was 
near the castle; it must be frequented by the Princess* 
servants, they must know there what was taking place 
at the castle. By proceeding carefully, could she not 
discover if there were any truth in the report of the 
action against the Princess with regard to her sanity? 
For should the Princess be proven insane, Micheline 
would be free! 

She entered the kitchen and asked if she could find 
food and lodging there. 

"Certainly; what does madame wish for supper?” 
replied the mistress of the inn. “We have soup, tripe, 
eggs, salad, any thing that madame would like. If 
madame will go into the little dining-room, we will 
set the table there; it will be quieter.” 

The room referred to was a kind of hole next the 
107 


108 


MICHELINE 


kitchen, dark and smoky, the atmosphere of which 
was heavy with the mingled odors of tobacco, coffee, 
whisky and cider. Fortunately there was a window 
which Germaine opened; it looked upon the esplanade. 

Soon a young girl entered the room. “Mamma told 
me madame would like supper,” said she, “I have 
come to set the table.” 

The girl had an intelligent manner, and Germaine 
hoped that she should succeed in drawing her into 
a conversation; she began at once. 

“I have been belated,” she said; “as I debated how 
I should best return to Trouville, I was delighted to 
come across your house.” 

“I saw madame when she was looking at the Prince’s 
tomb. Madame would no doubt have liked to have 
entered the chapel, but the Princess gives the key of 
the gate to no one. That is unfortunate, for if people 
could enter the mausoleum, a great many would come 
who do not come now. Did not madame think the 
tomb fine?” 

“Very.” 

“I thought that madame was interested in the work- 
manship by the manner in which she leaned her head 
against the bars of the gate; it is not everyone who 
looks at it in that way. Does madame know M. Cas- 
paris?” 

“No.” 

“He is a very nice man and not at all proud although 
he is a great artist. His ‘lady’ is a negress but she 
too is very nice and very pretty. They lived here 
when M. Casparis came to have his statues put in 


MICHELINB 


im 

place. The Princess offered him a room at the castle 
but he peferred to remain here; they were with us 
eight days. I was a little girl then, however they 
would not allow anyone else to wait upon them.” 

It was neither the sculptor Casparis nor his “lady, ” 
the negress, in whom Germaine was interested, it was 
upon the Princess and Micheline that her interest was 
centered. She therefore tried to turn the conversation 
to those subjects. 

“Why will the Princess not give the key to the 
chapel to anyone?” she asked. “Is she jealous?” 

“She is as jealous of the Prince as she was when he 
was alive; only she and Mile. Micheline enter the 
chapel. Every Monday — the Prince was killed on 
Monday — they come and put on large, aprons and 
with their own hands they sweep and dust the chapel. 
It is strange, is it not, for persons who have so many 
servants? But it is so. They change the flowers which 
the castle gardeners hand them. In the winter when 
they are in Paris, they close the chapel with shutters 
which are not taken down until the 4th of March, the 
Prince’s birthday; on that day they arrive home, or 
rather they arrive the day before, and what a fete 
there is! One green-house at the castle cultivates 
flowers for that day alone.” 

Every word caused Germaine a pang; that woman 
was happy to be able to do honor to the memory of 
him whose name she bore. 

“You are surprised,” said the young girl; “it js be- 
cause you are a stranger and do not know how much 
the Princess loved the Prince. I of course do not 


110 


MICHELINB 


remember much about it for I was too young at that 
time, but I have heard what others say. Although the 
Princess was much older than her husband, they loved 
one another like a couple of twenty.” 

“And Mile. Micheline?” interrupted Germaine, no 
longer able to control herself. 

“She is not their child; she is a child whom the 
Prince and Princess found ten years ago in the forest, 
and whom they adopted. The Prince was her godfath- 
er and the Princess her godmother. I remember the 
baptism very clearly; the Princess threw money and 
bonbons to the crowd assembled. I did not care for 
the bonbons, but I got three ten sou pieces and I have 
them still.” 

The table was laid and the young girl had nothing 
more to do in the room; when she re-entered it the 
conversation was resumed where it had been left off. 
But after having served the soup she did not return. 
Her mother brought in the dinner hastily like a woman 
who had no time to lose and who was not disposed to 
gossip. 

Perhaps, Germaine thought, she would be more fort- 
unate after her meal? But when she left her small 
dining-room, she found people congregated in the 
kitchen, and before them she dared not venture to 
make inquiries upon the points in which she was in- 
terested. 

She left the house and sauntered along the streets 
in the neighborhood of the cemetery; then she turned 
her steps toward the castle; after standing at its 


MlCHELINE 


111 


gate for some time she decided to return to the inn; 
probably the proprietress would be alone. 

But she was doomed to disappointment, for at the 
very moment that she entered, a man came in who 
wished to know if M. Saint-Denis had not yet arrived. 

“No not yet. He has no doubt been detained by his 
duties at the castle ; there are a great many people 
there. “ 

“I will await him.” Germaine was forced to re- 
nounce her project for that evening. She repaired to 
her room which overlooked the square and conse- 
quently the cemetery. Instead of closing her window, 
Germaine opened it wide, and having extinguished 
her candles, sat down to inhale the cool, fresh night 
air; as she sat there wrapt in thought she heard some 
one approach the inn, and seat himself at a table 
placed beneath her window. 

“Excuse me for not having come sooner,” said a 
voice, “I was detained; there is company at the cas- 
tle.” 

The speaker was Saint-Denis, the Princess' footman, 
whose name Germaine had heard frequently in days 
gone-by. 

“This is the favor I have to ask of you,” replied 
another voice; the speaker that time was the man she 
had seen in the kitchen. ”The Princess, I hear, in- 
tends engaging a governess for her ward. Very well, 
I have someone whom I beg of you to support; it 
is a young person who is at present in England in a sit- 
uation she cannot retain.” 

“All that I can do, I will do. Between such old 


112 


MICHEUNE 


friends as we are that is only natural. But you must 
know that what I may say will not influence the Prin- 
cess; if your young person has no one in a high position 
who can recommend her, madame will not take her. 
It is no small matter to be governess to that little one.” 

“To a foundling! ” 

“She is not a Princess but an arch-princess; in a 
word she is the real mistress of the house and not 
always a very pleasant one, I assure you. She has 
not a bad disposition, but the habit of having her own 
way has spoiled her. And too, I promise you that 
if your young person comes to us she will have no 
comfort; you may depend upon that.” 

“She is a woman with a firm will, she will conquer 
her.”. 

“I am not so certain of that. Regina too has a very 
strong will and the child has conquered Aer, If madame 
is fond of any one she is fond of Regina, still if the 
little one were to say the word, Regina would go to- 
morrow. Regina kiiows it, and if she loses her temper, 
she soon cools down. Of course the time is past when 
Regina was indispensable to madame. Since the day 
of the Prince’s death, dyes and cosmetics have been 
laid aside; there are no more fine toilets; a widow’s 
cap rests upon her white hair. But she is handsomer 
than she was when she masqueraded as a woman of 
thirty. ” 

“I do not care about that.” 

“Nor I; I only wished to show you, to convince 
you that she now lives only for that girl. Positively 
she is mad on the subject, and if your governess does 


MICHELINE 


113 


not please her pupil, she will have to pack her trunk 
and leave immediately.” 

“Has the Princess nothing to say?” 

“The Princess admires her, she fairly worships her; 
you could never imagine what influence that child ex- 
ercises over her. Two years ago she made her buy a 
camel, and it now roams at large in the park. The 
castle is filled with birds which the child has tamed; 
she takes pleasure in seeing them perch upon the 
shoulders of persons who come to visit at the castle, 
and the Princess indulges her every whim. Madame 
has carried things so far, that her nephew, M. Ern- 
est Patouillet is trying or going to try, to prove that 
she is of unsound mind, in order that her fortune may 
not fall to Micheline. ” 

“I will write to my young friend, at any rate.” 


IV 


Saint Denis had been gone for some time, and Ger- 
maine still sat at her window motionlessly reflecting; 
but her mind was too troubled for her to think clearly ; 
she was incapable of forming any decision or even of 
reasoning. It was evident that she could form no 
resolution without aid. She would therefore go to Paris 
as she had intended, and when she was posted as to 
her legal claims upon her daughter as well as to the 
means afforded her by them of regaining her, she would 
determine what was to be done. She preferred apply- 
ing to an entire stranger to whom she need only tell 
as much or as little of her story as she wanted to. 

She had heard her husband when despairing of his 
suit cry, “Oh, I had Gontaud! *’ She had too heard 
him praise the celebrated lawyer’s dignity and justice 
which were on a par with his talent. 

She would then apply to Gontaud for counsel, and 
on reaching Paris she hastened to his door. For 
three hours she waited in his drawing-room; finally at 
six o’clock in the evening she was received. 

She had had sufficient time in which to prepare her 
recital, but when she found herself seated at a large 
table strewn with briefs, and when she saw Gontaud 
glance so fixedly at her, she could not proceed with- 

114 . 


MICHELINE 


115 


out some difficulty, and told her story in a low, scarcely 
audible voice. 

The lawyer did not lose a word, however, of what 
Germaine said to him, but followed the story as in- 
telligently as if he had known the names of the per- 
sons interested. 

“If I understand you aright," said he, “you wish to 
make of this a sort of theoretical consultation ; before 
engaging in a suit, the child’s mother wishes to know 
what her claims are from a legal point of view?” 

“Precisely. “ 

“Very well, madame, I regret to have to reply that 
from that stand-point she has none. ’ 

“I have no claim upon my child!” exclaimed Ger- 
maine, unable to restrain herself. 

Reaching out his hand toward the table, Gontaud 
took a code, and having opened it, he laid it in front 
of Germaine; “Read that article.” 

She took the code and read the paragraph to which 
he pointed: “An acknowledgment cannot be made 
with regard to natural children.” 

“But why can a stranger have rights which the law 
refuses to a mother?” cried Germaine. 

“Because the mother has allowed that stranger to 
take her place, and because by ten years of care she 
has created claims which the law recognizes.” 

“But that stranger who wishes to keep the child is 
a woman without character, will or intelligence; she 
is training the child very badly.” 

“And who can protect the child since she has neither 


tie 


MICHELINB 


father /lor mother, and no one has a right to interest 
himself or herself in her?” 

“It was not to that that I wished to call your atten- 
tion, it was to the fact that that person is so weak- 
minded that her family think of taking action against 
her as of unsound mind.” 

“Well?” 

“Then of course she could not keep the child; then 
the latter would be free, and it seems to me the 
mother could regain her.” 

The lawyer was accustomed to such arguments and 
showed neither surprise nor impatience. 

“Would not the guardian^ s incapacity give the 
mother power?” 

“No! the child has no mother in the eyes of the law. ” 

All that was left for Germaine was to depart. When 
she reached the street, she was undecided as to which 
way to go. She walked along, seeing nothing, hearing 
nothing, for Gontaud’s words were ringing in her ears. 

Would she have to submit to that decree and only 
see her child as Eugenie had seen her, accidentally, 
and at a distance? She would not submit, and what 
law would not permit, maternity would; Micheline 
should have a mother— her mother. A governess was 
to be engaged; she would be that governess. She 
yearned for her child’s heart, her love; she longed to 
be with her, to devote herself to her, to educate her, 
to train her mind, to efface all traces of frivolity. 

If Micheline did not feel toward her as a daughter, 
she, Germaine, would at least cherish for her the feel- 
ings and solicitude of a mother. And that was as it 


MICHELINE 


117 


should be; it would be the mother, not her child, who 
would suffer. 

Those two words which she had uttered on the shore, 
“My child,” she would be enabled to address to her 
again. 


V 


Saint-Denis^ words pointed out to Germaine the 
course she would have to follow. 

First of all it was necessary to obtain the patronage 
of some one in a high position. Where should she 
find such a person? 

During ten years of her married life she had not 
lived in France, and all relations with the friends of 
her family had been brpken: some were dead, others 
had gone she knew not whither; she was as a stranger 
in her native land. However among her old friends 
there was one whose name often figured in the news- 
papers; he was a General, Count d^Ayrvault, who had 
distinguished himself in the last campaign and whom 
the electors had sent to the Assembly at Versailles, 
where he occupied a prominent position among the 
Royalists. He had been her father^ s comrade, his best 
friend. He alone occupied the high position exacted 
by the Princess, and he alone consequently could prove 
useful to her by his support. 

She set out at once for Versailles, for the Hotel des 
Reservoirs, where she was told the General was din- 
ing. At any other time she would not have dared to 
enter that dining-room, but her child was in the bal- 
ance and it was no time to listen to timidity or 
shame. 


118 


MICHELINE 


119 


It was late and there were very few people in the 
room. The General was seated alone at a small table 
facing the door. Germaine recognized him at once, 
but he did not know her. On seeing a lady in mourn- 
ing advancing with the evident intention of accosting 
him, he naturally felt somewhat uncomfortable. 

“You do not recognize me. General? Germaine d’ 
Ambarres!” 

He sprang from his chair: “What, my little Ger- 
maine, is it you?” he cried, kissing her upon both 
cheeks. Then, looking at her closely, he asked: “For 
whom are you in mourning?” 

“For my husband.” 

“Forgive me, I did not know; it is so long a time 
since I have heard of you.” To change the painful 
subject he asked: “I hope you have not dined? No? 
You must dine with me.” And summoning a waiter, 
he bade him bring another cover. 

Germaine did not wait until the meal was ended to 
tell the General what brought her to Versailles. 

“What! You wish to become a governess!” he in- 
terrupted. “With that pretty face and elegant form 
you will find a husband! Why, I should be very hap- 
py, old man as I am, to marry a woman like you.” 

“I do not depend upon a husband for my living, 
but upon my work.” 

“You have taken away my appetite! Why will you 
not marry me? You have no relatives, I was your 
father’s best friend; it is my duty to protect you; 
it seems as if your poor father were requiring it of 
me. ” 


120 


MICHELINB 


“You can protect me by aiding me in obtaining the 
position I desire, and that is the favor I came to ask 
of you.” 

She told him what place she desired to obtain. 

“Princess Sobolewski! 1 do not know her. Who is 
she?” 

She answered his question. 

“Widow Beaumoussel! A woman who bought her 
husband,” said he disdainfully. “A man who sold 
himself! A foundling! What would you do among 
such people? Your place is not in society of that 
kind. ” 

She had not anticipated those objections; she was 
put out of countenance. 

“Certainly,” continued the General, “I must marry 
you and 1 will marry you. I see that you dread pov- 
erty, and that is not very much to be wondered at. 
But I could not let you embark upon such a venture 
with an easy conscience.” 

She tried to convince him by telling him that the 
doctors had recommended that she spend three or four 
months at the sea shore, and that at Hopsore she 
would not be far from Trouville. The Princess, she 
said, was a good woman, the child was charming. 
The General was not stupid; beneath those objections 
he scented a secret. 

“I objected because I thought it right,” said he; 
“you seem however notwithstanding to wish to enter 
that house, and 1 have not the right to prevent you; 
you require my co-operation, I will give it to you. 


MICHELINE 


121 


But, you know, I cannot write to Princess Sobolewski 
whom I do not know,” 

“You can if you wish to, testify as to my family 
and the interest you take in me.” 

“But that is not enough! To-morrow at the com- 
mencement of the session I will see if there is not 
some one among my colleagues who knows Princess 
Sobolewski and whose word will have weight with 
her. If I should meet such an one, I will obtain a 
letter for you from him.” 

The following day at three o’clock he brought her 
the testimonial she had asked him for, together with 
a letter from a deputy who knew the Princess, if not 
intimately, at least well enough to be able to write 
to her. When she had thanked him, he said: 

“I have done what you required of me, but not 
what I should do for you; I am therefore at your serv- 
ice. If matters do not turn out as you expect they 
will, write or come to me; only do not delay for I 
am growing old and I should not like to rejoin your 
father without being able to tell him that I have been 
useful to his daughter. Kiss me, and now, good-luck, 
my child.” 

His kind words strengthened her, and with confi- 
dence she set out for Trouville where she arrived that 
same evening. 

The following morning at half-past ten, she rang 
at the gate of the castle of Hopsore. Her confidence 
of the preceding day had disappeared. 

Upon reaching the front door, she asked to see the 
Princess. Saint-Denis admitted her into the hall, and 


123 


MICHELINE 


she was glancing vaguely around the large room, when 
her attention was attracted by a marble bust of the 
Prince, who, upon his pedestal entwined with flowers, 
appeared to be a household god. 

As she gazed at that bust with tearful eyes, she 
heard a voice behind her pronounce her name, and she 
turned quickly, startled as well as confused at being 
thus surprised. 

It was Regina who examined her from head to foot 
with a scornful air. 

“The Princess is engaged just at present; this is not 
the time when she receives. But if you will tell me 
what your business is, I will tell her and you will re- 
ceive an answer at once.’* 

She drew from her pocket the letter from the 
deputy and handed it to Regina. But that did not 
satisfy Regina, who was curious to know what that 
woman in mourning wanted, for she had recognized 
her as the lady she had seen upon the shore. 

“Madame is very busy,” said she, “and if you could 
explain to me what you desired, it would save you 
time.” 

“I am not in a hurry, I will wait until the Princess 
can read that letter.** 


VI 


Germaine did not have long to wait; almost imme- 
diately Regina returned and conducted her into the 
drawing-room. With a throbbing heart she had 
awaited that interview. But it was essential that she 
should maintain her self-control notwithstanding the 
anguish and jealousy which possessed her as she saw 
the mark of love and respect which that woman paid 
to the memory of him whom they both mourned — 
the Princess openly, proudly — she in secret, with 
shame. 

Notwithstanding what Saint-Denis had said of the 
change which had taken place in the Princess since 
her widowhood, Germaine had expected to find her in 
some measure as she had been. When the drawing- 
room door opened, she was surprised to see a woman 
advance, upon her head a simple lace cap from which 
peeped forth her gray hair. There was nothing affected, 
mincing or absurd about her; on the contrary, there 
was a certain dignity and nobility, as if by dint of 
hearing herself called “Princess,” she had become 
one in her bearing and manner. 

Germaine rose. The Princess bade her resume her 
seat, and seating herself she questioned her in a kind- 
ly tone: 

“M. de Guilbermesnil tells me that you desire to 
123 


124 


MICHELINE 


become my ward’s governess, but although he recom- 
mends you highly, his information is somewhat vague. 
Are you a widow?” 

“Yes, madame.” 

“How long has your husband been dead?” 

“Six months.” 

“I sympathize with you deeply. I, too, to my sor- 
row, know what it is to lose a husband.” 

The Princess paused, overcome by emotion ; then she 
continued: “I beg your pardon for having reopened 

your wounds, but I am obliged to ask what M. de 
Guilbermesnil has neglected to tell me.” 

“I have not the honor of knowing M. de Guilber- 
mesnil, who only wrote that letter at the, request of a 
friend of my family, General d’ Ayrvault, his col- 
league at the Assembly.” 

The General’s name had caused too much of a sensa- 
tion as well during the war as in politics for the 
Princess to be unfamiliar with it. 

“Ah, you know Count d’ Ayrvault?” said she evi- 
dently impressed. 

“My father and the General were comrades, and 
when they were separated the tie of friendship was 
not severed; the General was one of the witnesses of 
my marriage.” 

“Your father was a soldier?” 

“He died just as he was to be promoted to the 
rank of General. Here is a letter from Count d^ Ayr- 
vault telling you of my family.” 

She handed the Princess the General’ s letter which 
she read carefully. 


MICHELINE 


125 


“Then you have never been a governess?” asked the 
Princess. 

“I have never been a resident governess but I have 
given lessons. Married to an engineer, I left France 
for Chili, where my husband directed the exploration 
of important mines. His business was not successful, 
he became involved in law-suits, and the time came 
when all of his means were absorbed by those suits 
and we had nothing to subsist upon except that which 
I earned by giving lessons in French, English and 
music. Fortunately my father had insisted upon my 
taking the examinations. I had my diplomas, they 
saved us from starvation.” 

“So that although you have given lessons, you have 
never entirely educated anyone?” 

“I was married at eighteen.” 

“And you lived in Chili some time.” 

“I only returned to France a few days ago.” 

“How old are you?” 

“Thirty-four.” 

The Princess looked at her and murmured in a tone 
of commiseration: “Poor woman! You must have 
suffered a great deal!’ 

For ten years Germaine had eschewed all coquetry 
and pretension. She had not thought either of beauty 
or youth as formerly. Her feminine vanity had died 
upon the day on which she read in a newspaper of the 
death of the only man for whom she wished to be 
beautiful. She had been told that she was plain, that 
she looked sixty years old, and she had been perfectly 
indifferent to such remarks. But there was one woman. 


126 


MICHELINE 


from whom she could not bear that — only one — the 
Princess — and she had told it to her but not in words. 

Smarting beneath that wound the cry: “It was 
weeping for your husband which caused my suffering,” 
rose to her lips, but a mother does not rebel, and she 
made an effort to suppress the momentary wave 
of anger which swept over her. 

The Princess noticed her trouble and thinking that 
she had pained Germaine by her observation, she tried 
to excuse herself. 

“These marks of your suffering are of more value to 
me than all the testimonials in the world,” said she 
with a sympathetic glance. “They prove that you 
have a heart.” Then she resumed her examination. 
“You have no children?” 

Germaine trembled. 

“Have you lost them?” cried the Princess. 

“Yes.” 

“My God, I am sorry to renew your grief at every 
word I utter; but it is the fault of the letters which 
give no details. I must, of course, know about you, 
therefore my questions.” 

“That is very natural, and I should reply to them.” 

“Since you do not know M. de Guibermesnil, how 
did you know that I wanted a governess?” 

The question was embarrassing and might prove 
dangerous; however, she must reply. 

“As my health was affected by my long stay in Chili, 
the doctor ordered me to spend several months at the 
sea-shore. I therefore came to Trouville in obedience 
to his orders, when by chance I heard some one say 


MICHELINE 


127 


that you thought of employing a governess for your 
ward, Mile. Micheline, whom I saw upon the shore. 
It then occurred to me to apply for the situation.” 

“Ah, indeed!” 

“I was very much taken with her gayety, her air of 
health and her charm of manner. I could not present 
myself without testimonials, and I returned to Paris 
to ask for a letter of recommendation from Count d^ 
Ayrvault, who applied to his friend, M. de Guilber- 
mesnil. " 

“So you liked Micheline?” 

“I thought her charming.” 

“That is well, for I am convinced that it is essen- 
tial that the pupil should inspire sympathy in her 
teacher. But that is not all. It is a very serious 
matter to chose an instructress who for five or six 
years has to mold not only the mind but the charac- 
ter of a child. You, of course, agree with me that it 
is only natural that I should like to reflect upon it. 
If you had already been a governess, I should only 
have had to inquire of the family in which you had 
taught. If M. de Guilbermesnil knew you personally, 

I should only have to consult him.” 

“General d^ Ayrvault knows me personally,” said 
Germaine, startled by that reserve at the moment 
when she thought herself about to be installed near 
her child. 

“Undoubtedly, and you may depend upon it that I 
esteem the recommendation of a man in Count d’ 
AyrvaulPs position, but he can only tell me one thing 
besides that which concerns your family, and that is 


128 


MICHELINE 


that you have given lessons lo young Chilians. And 
that is what obliges me to consider the matter before 
giving my reply. You know that Micheline is not my 
daughter? ” 

“Your ward?” 

“My god-child and my ward, but I love her as a 
daughter. As I required information about you, I 
should give you the same as to your probable future 
pupil. In reality she is a foundling; I need scarcely 
tell you so, for the whole country knows it; her his- 
tory, unfortunately for her, is only too well-known. 
Ten years ago, on the 20th of July, I went out with 
the Prince to take a stroll in the forest as we often 
did.” 

Germaine turned away her head, while the Princess 
proceeded with her story, which was also familiar to 
Germaine. 

“To-day I love her as if she were my child, and I 
think that she loves me as if I were her mother. In- 
deed am I not more her mother than is the miserable 
woman who deserted her? and to-day if by some mir- 
acle the woman should present herself to reclaim her 
daughter, I would not fear to bid Micheline choose 
between that mother and me, feeling assured in 
advance of the choice her heart would make.” 

Germaine had never fancied that such a terrible 
expiation would strike her, and from the hand of that 
woman too! She did not know what to say. 

“I do not wish to bind her to me by the bonds of 
love alone,” continued the Princess, “but by those 
which the law puts within my reach. She shall be my 


MICHELINE 


129 


heiress and I will select a grand match for her. By 
the grace of God I shall be able to do so. On the 
other hand she must be worthy of that marriage, that 
is why I am so careful in the choice of her governess. 
I do not want an intelligent daughter only, but one 
irreproachably trained. I will therefore think it over 
and will let you know my decision. As far as to-day 
is concerned, I have one favor to ask of you, and that 
is to beg of you to dine at the castle. You have seen 
Miclieline, she has not seen you. I told you a few 
moments since that in my eyes it was important 
that a teacher should be in sympathy with her pupil. 
Sympathy is instinctive, is it not? Michel ine will 
have no suspicion that you may become her governess. 
I will not conceal from you the fact that if she likes 
you as much as you like her, it will have great weight 
with my determination. 


9 


VII 


Was not the situation cruel? A daughter accepting 
or repulsing her mother instinctively without knowing 
what she was doing! Had the Princess wished to be 
revenged upon her she could assuredly not have in- 
vented a more atrocious torture. What would impel 
Micheline to decide? The voice of blood! From the 
parlor in which she had been received, the Princess led 
her into the salon in which she left her alone, and 
she there awaited the ringing of the lunch bell. Time 
had never seemed so long. On coming to Hopsore 
she thought that she would meet her child with a trans- 
port of delight and now her eyes were fastened with 
poignant anguish upon the door. Finally a bell rang 
and almost immediately the door opened. But it was 
not only Micheline who entered; the Princess came in 
accompanied by a young man of twenty five or six, 
slender, erect, with a scornful, nonchalant air, walk- 
ing as if he had difficulty in creeping along, his eyes 
dim and indifferent. 

"Madame Haronis whom I have mentioned to you?" 
Then addressing Germaine: “Prince Witold Sobolew- 
ski, my brother-in-law." 

Germaine had often heard Casimir speak of Witold 
and although she had never seen him, she was drawn 
toward him. Was he not brother? However, not- 

^30 


MICHELINE 


131 


withstanding that favorable inclination, she felt no 
real sympathy for him; that nonchalance, that disdain, 
those dull eyes had something about them disquiet- 
ing. She had always fancied him another Casimir, 
and he was precisely the opposite of him. Casimir^s 
death had not broken the Princess’ relations with her 
husband’s family; she had married and dowried Wanda 
and Hedwige, as she had married and dowried Carola. 
She had continued to aid Adam and Ladislas as she 
had done during her husband’s life-time. As for 
Witold, who at his brother’s death was only sixteen,^ 
she had continued to pay for his education hoping that 
he would decide between the three professions he had 
to choose from: then as he could not decide she gave 
him an income^upon which he lived, in addition to 
what he gained by gambling, betting and writing soci- 
ety articles in the newspapers. 

“What! Has Micheline not returned?” said the 
Princess looking about her. Those words could only 
have been addressed to Witold; he did not seem to 
hear them, at any rate he did not reply. 

The Princess rang ; Regina appeared. 

“Where is Micheline?” 

“She went out an hour ago with madame’s nephew. “ 

“Go in search of her and tell her to come to lunch 
at once; she must not keep us waiting.” 

Regina had not to go far; at the moment that she 
entered the garden, they heard merry laughter beneath 
the windows. 

“That is Micheline,” said the Princess running to 
the window. 


132 


MICHELINE 


It would have been more appropriate had Germaine 
not left her seat, but she had not the power to remain 
in her chair, and she too ran to the window. In the 
center of the alley between the pond and the castle 
was Micheline mounted on the camel. 

“Houp! houp! ” cried Micheline balancing herself. 

“Jacques, take care,” cried the Princess. 

“Do not fear. Aunt,” replied the young officer as 
he walked by the side of the camel. Arrived at the 
steps he stopped and gently striking the camePs legs 
with a little switch, he made him kneel down, then, 
taking Micheline in his arms, he put her on the 
ground. 

Very soon the girl entered the salon like a whirl- 
wind and running up to the Princess she cried, “Oh 
godmother, I am satisfied now. I have wanted a 
ride for sometime.” And turning toward Witold 
she said : “You see that I have broken no bones as 
you predicted I would.” But the Princess interrupted 
her, and taking her by the hand she led her to Ger- 
maine, who stood tremblingly in an embrasure, 
awaiting her decree. 

“Come, let me present you to a lady who gives 
us the pleasure to lunch with us: Madame Haronis!” 

“Good-day, madame!” said Micheline, offering 
Germaine her hand — not from any sympathy, but sim- 
pl}^ because she had been taught to give her hand to 
her godmother’s friends like a little dog who gives 
its paw. With that mechanical gesture she raised 
her e3^es to Germaine and recognized her. 

“Ah, is it you?” said she. 


MICHELINH 


133 


“Do you know madame?” asked the Princess in 
despair. 

“Yes; yesterday, no, the day before, Jeanne cro- 
queted my oall under madame's feet so roughly; 
madame was not angry; she let me get my ball with- 
out any fuss; did I not send it back finely?” 

“Very!” said Germaine. 

The entrance of the young sailor put an end to the 
colloquy and introductions began again. 

“Mr. Jacques Hebertot, my grand nephew, ” said the 
Princess. 

Germaine did not know him, for he did not belong 
to the Sobolewski family. He was indeed a Beau- 
moussel; he had been left an orphan a short while 
after the Prince’s death, and the Princess had 
charged herself with his education. He wanted to be 
a sailor. She had sent him to the college at Houfleur, 
then she had paid his expenses at a naval school. 
Not bearing the name of Beaumoussel, he did not em- 
barass her; and as he was gay, a jolly fellow, bright, 
intelligent, always in a good humor; as instead of 
showing any jealously or enmity toward Micheline 
like all the rest of the Patouillets and the majority 
of the Sobolewskis, he treated her as a companion 
without thinking that she had deprived him of a por- 
tion of his inheritance, she was fond of him. 

Nevertheless she scolded gently on account of that 
ride. “You might have killed Micheline,” said she. 

“There is no danger. Aunt. I taught her how to 
keep her seat; and then she was so anxious to mount 
her camel, I could no longer refuse her.” 


134 


MICHELINE 


"That is true, godmother; I teased him; he did not 
want to." 

"There is always danger when one is on an ani- 
mal,” said the Princess with a sigh. 

They passed into the dining-room and Germaine 
was seated to the right of Micheline, who had for her 
neighbor on her left, Jacques Hebertot. 

Scarcely had Germaine seated herself than she heard 
Micheline say in an undertone to the young sailor: 
"Pay attention, you shall see!" And turning toward 
her, Micheline took a jug of water from the table 
and offered her some. Surprised at that kind atten- 
tion, Germaine held out her glass, and when it was 
half-filled, as she had not yet eaten anything and did 
not wish to drink she stood it before her. Scarcely 
had she withdrawn her hand when she heard the rustle 
of wings above her head; before she could discover 
what it was, a small ball fell before eyes and she 
heard a ’flouc’ in her glass from which the water 
flew and flooded the table-cloth. 

"Oh, Micheline, you are incorrigible! " exclaimed the 
Princess. 

"Flouc is taking her bath," exclaimed Micheline, 
laughing merrily. 

"You have spilled water on Madame Haronis just 
for that!" 

Flouc was a tomtit belonging to Micheline; the 
bird was allowed her liberty in the dining-room. 
Mile, Flouc, who was quite a vain personage, loving 
baths passionately, plunged into the glasses filled 
with water so rapidly that they could not be filled with 


MICHELINE 


135 


wine, and there she dabbled, opening her wings, shak- 
ing them and taking plunges. It was very amusing 
to see the pretty little creature make her toilette in 
a glass; however at the table all were surprised; it 
was just that surprise which Micheline enjoyed; she 
rarely failed to afford herself that amusement when a 
guest was at the Princess’ table for the first time. 

"Micheline, I am shocked," her godmother would 
say. 

But as the Princess was never really angry the god- 
child would repeat the performance, certain that she 
would escape unpunished. 

What Germaine had mistaken for kindness, was a 
joke. But she was not vexed. Could she be vexed 
with her daughter? 

"That is ? strange little creature," said she, brush- 
ing off the drops of water which had fallen upon her 
dress. 

"You see, godmother," said Micheline with a tri- 
umphant air, "that Mme. Haronis is not angry. On 
the contrary, she admires Flouc, do you not, madame?" 

"Very much." 

Micheline assured that she had nothing to fear from 
her neighbor, turned toward her and said: 

"It is not the first time I have played that trick 
with Flouc, Those who get angry are disagreeable 
people; those who do not get angry are nice people. 
Jacques does not get vexed." She lowered her voice: 
"But Witold gets furious." She was interrupted by 
Saint-Denis who put an egg in her egg-cup. 


VIII 


There was no other accident during lunch, and 
Micheline continued to talk as amicably with Ger- 
maine as if she had known her a long time. If Ger- 
maine could not say that she exercised an irresistible 
attraction over her daughter, at least the child did not 
experience any repulsion for her, and that was a 
great point. She therefore grew more hopeful and be- 
gan to think that perhaps her unlucky days were over, 
and she saw herself installed in the castle near her 
daughter. 

How much need the poor child had of a mother to 
watch over her ! In reality she was a veritable sav- 
age, conducting herself at the table worse than the 
child of any peasant, saying whatever occurred to her 
first, interrupting her godmother and everyone, find- 
ing fault with the food, while the Princess had not 
the courage to scold or correct her. 

“Micheline, you are incorrigible!” 

“Yes, godmother!” and that was all. 

Micheline with childish intuition knew that she 
was the only mistress in that house. After lunch 
they entered a large salon in which was a piano, 
and the Princess approaching Germaine asked her in 
a low voice if she would play. That request needed 
no explanation; it was an examination to which she 

13a 


'•Good-day, madame ! ” said Micheline, offering Germaine her 

hand. — ij2. 



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1 


MICHELINE 


137 


was to be subjected in order that the Princess might 
find out if she was really capable of directing Miche- 
line^s musical education. She had therefore only to 
take her seat at the piano and to play, if not to please 
Micheline, at least to please the Princess. 

She played a valse from Ze Prophete, 

Micheline advanced to the piano, leaned her arms 
upon it and listened, her eyes fastened upon Gen 
maine. 

“You play well,” she said. 

No compliment had ever been sweeter to Ger- 
maine’s heart. 

“Do you like music?” she asked. 

At that moment the Princess who had heard the 
words exchanged between them, interpolated: “You 
ask Micheline if she likes music; she might reply, ‘pas- 
sionately. ’ I think she is endowed with an exceptional 
talent for music, for she remembers everything that 
she hears and can reproduce it with extraordinary ac- 
curacy; ask her to sing you the valse you have just 
played, it was not familiar to her, and you will see 
that I have not exaggerated. Will you, my darling?” 

“I would rather listen to madame, ” replied Mich- 
eline. 

“Please, my child,” said Germaine. 

“As you wish.” And she began to hum the first 
measures of the valse in a pure, clear voice. 

“You see,” cried the Princess when the girl had fin> 
ished and turned upon her heel to follow Jacques, 
adding: “It is certain that either her father or her 

mother was musical.” 


138 ' 


MICHELINE 


Germaine did not dare to reply, “Probably; ’* 
moreover at that moment she had another care — was 
the Princess satisfied with her playing? It was not 
Michel ine alone whom she wished to please. 

Germaine had noticed that on a small easel draped 
with velvet stood a richly-bound volume with the 
Sobolewski arms in gold on the outside. The Princess 
took it up and bringing it to the piano, said: “This 
is one of the Prince’s operas; if you will play the 
overture, I will turn the pages.” 

That was a blow to Germaine; — to play that music 
which she knew from memory, and to have the Prin- 
cess turn the pages! Yet, such was the situation that 
she could not refuse. 

When she finished the overture of *La Trompe des 
Alpes* the Princess praised her warmly. 

“There is no music with which I am more familiar, 
for that reason I asked you to play it; you have exe- 
cuted it admirably.” And she called Witold to sec- 
ond her praises. 

“Perfectly!” he replied with a languid air. 

Germaine was wondering what trial they would next 
subject her to, when she saw the Princess leave the 
room with Micheline. She remained alone with Wit- 
old and Jacques. She did not know what the latter 
was saying to her, for she had a dim foreboding that 
her fate was being decided. It was to examine Mich- 
eline that the Princess had led her aside. What 
would the child reply? 

“How do you like Mme. Haronis?” the Princess asked 
Micheline when they were alone in the small salon. 


MICHELINE 


139 


“She is a nice lady; she was not vexed about Flouc.’* 

“Do you think she plays the piano well?” 

“Very well.” 

“Do you like her?” 

“I do not know.” 

“At least you do not dislike her?” 

“Why should I? She seems very kind, and she has 
an affectionate way of looking at one. You should 
have made her sing, her voice is so musical.” 

’’Would you be satisfied to study with her?” 

“No.” She paced the room repeating: “No, no!” 
Then pausing before her godmother she asked : “Study? 
Do you want me to study with Mme. Haronis? Music? ” 

“Music and everything else. She is very well-in- 
formed, refined, well-born ; she lias been recommended 
to me by distinguished people. ” 

“Why was she recommended to you?” 

“In order that she might educate you.” 

“I do not care to learn.” 

“I am grieved to hear you say that; my duty is to 
make you study. Would you like me to put you in a 
convent?” 

“Do not do that, I should run away. I give you 
fair warning.” 

“I do not wish to put you in a convent, for I cannot 
be separated from you.” 

Micheline approached and kissed her. 

“If I do not send you to a convent, you must prom- 
ise to study at home under a governess whom you 
must obey.” 

“Will she be as cross as Regina?” 


140 


MICHELINE 


“Regina was your nurse, Mme. Haronis will be your 
governess, and that is not the same thing.” 

“Shall I then be rid of Regina?” 

“How rid of her?” 

“Regina will not go out with me, she will not per- 
secute me with her observations?” 

“You will only have to obey Mme. Haronis.” 

“Very well, I am for Mme. Haronis, provided that 
I shall be rid of Regina. I would just as soon have 
Mme. Haronis as anyone else; she hafe pretty, soft 
eyes. ” 

“I would decide nothing until I saw if Mme. Har- 
onis pleased you or not; now I can tell her the matter 
is settled.” 

“Will she remain here?” 

“No doubt. Where would you like her to go?” 

“Oh, I should like her to remain, but only on the 
condition that she will not make me work at once. I 
must have my vacation like everyone else.” 

“You have had nothing but one holiday since your 
birth!” 

“Everyone is having a rest now; it is not fair that I 
should not rest too; when everyone works, I will — 
since it must be so.” 

“It is not right to bargain thus.” 

“I am only standing up for my rights.” 

As usual the Princess yielded; work should begin 
in October — a few weeks more or less made no differ- 
ence. She returned to the salon where Germaine anx- 
iously awaited her; but at first she spoke only on 
indifferent matters, not wishing to broach the subject 


MICHELINE 


141 


before Witold and Jacques. It was only when they 
left the room that she mentioned it. 

"I have just consulted Micheline, ” said she. 

Germaine’s heart failed her, her eyes grew dim! 

“She thinks you have sweet eyes and a kind air, 
therefore she is drawn toward you rather than repelled, 
and for the present, that is sufficient ; at the end of 
an hour one can ask no more. I told you that before 
deciding I must reflect; but during lunch a fact oc- 
curred which helped me considerably in my decision. 
What made me doubtful, notwithstanding the letters 
from M. de Guilbermesnil and Count d’Ayrvault was, 
that you had only given lessons to young Chilians. I 
feared you would not be able to train Michel ine to 
become a distingue woman. There are habits which 
are as essential as orthography and which diplomas 
cannot give. Were you familiar with them, I asked 
myself? When I watched you at the table, however, 
and saw you break the shell of your egg, I was reas- 
sured. It is a trifle, yet it is sufficient. There are 
small matters like that upon which all depends. 
Thank God you are versed in them, and I can confide 
Micheline to you.” 


IX 


The very day of her installation at Hopsore, and 
after the luncheon at which she had undergone the 
double examination by her daughter and the Princess, 
Germaine entered upon her duties, accompanying 
Micheline to her bath and on her walk upon the sand. 

When they talked of going out, Micheline asked if 
she wanted Regina to go with them, and of course she 
replied that she did not. 

“Ah, what joy!” said Micheline. “If you knew how 
beastly Regina was! ” 

“You must not say that, my child,” Germaine said 
in her soft voice with her most affectionate glance. 
“That is a word of which a child in your position 
should not make use.” 

“As you will, I do not care. I will get ready at 
once. ’* 

“I will gladly assist you; it is henceforth my duty 
to help you in all that you do.” 

“Then I will go and tell my godmother.*' And 
Micheline immediately ran to inform the Princess that 
Mme. Germaine did not need Regina. At first the 
Princess objected, not deeming it proper that a govern- 
ess should fulfill the offices of a maid, but as usual 
she finally yielded. 

So they both entered the carriage which awaited 
142 


MICHELINE 143 

them at the foot of the steps, and Germaine seated 
herself beside her child. 

“If you only knew how glad I am to be rid of 
Regina! ’’ cried Micheline. “She would have liked to 
have remained my maid, but I did not want her; she 
annoyed me too much by telling me things,” said 
Micheline turning pale, “things which I dare not 
repeat; if my godmother loves me, I am not to blame. 
Beware of Regina, Mme. Germaine; she is a malicious 
woman. ” 

Germaine needed no warning; Regina must of course 
be angry at having to descend from the position of 
nurse to that of a simple waiting-woman; it was there- 
fore easy to understand that she would look upon her 
as an enemy, as the cause of that change. Regina 
had seen her upon the shore; she had too, surprised 
her before the Prince’s bust. The people at the inn 
who on seeing her pass in the carriage with Miche- 
line had recognized her, and would tell the castle 
servants that she had supped and lodged there and 
that she had visited the Prince’s tomb. 

It required no great amount of perspicacity to 
divine that Regina and the other servants would be 
curious to know what she was, whence she came, if 
there were any secret in her life ; and they would leave 
no stone unturned. They would spy upon her, they 
would rummage in her trunks and chests. 

For ten years she had treasured up the Prince’s por- 
trait as well as the letters he had written her; now 
that she was in that house in which the Princess was 
surrounded by relics of him she had loved, she deter- 


144 


MICHBLINE 


mined to give up her letters and portrait. She made 
a package of them, sealed and sent them to Eugenie 
telling her to guard the package carefully, for it was 
her entire fortune. 

Eugenie was probity itself, and when there was a 
question of a “fortune, ” one could be certain that it 
would be as safe with her as with the most faithful 
of notaries. At the same time she advised her not to 
come to Hopsore and only to write to her when she 
wrote to her herself, addressing her reply to the Trou- 
ville postoffice. 

Those precautions taken, she could leave her trunks 
open and her keys in the cupboards. 

It was not alone with Micheline’s instruction that 
she had been charged, but also with her deportment; 
it was not alone her mind she had to form, it was her 
character; her wild manners would have to be corrected. 

The next day there was a children’s ball at the 
Trouville pavilion to which she was to accompany 
Micheline who was passionately fond of dancing. 

They were to leave at three o’clock, and at half -past 
two, Micheline, ready to enter the carriage, came into 
Germaine’s chamber which was only separated from 
hers by a dressing-room. 

“Here I am,” said she; “how do I look?” 

She was dressed very elegantly; her costume of 
pale pink silk was more suitable for a young lady than 
for a child. 

“I do not think you look nice at all, my child,” 
said Germaine with gentle firmness. 

“The idea!” 


MICHELINE 


145 


“I am speaking seriously; you have used powder; 
you have penciled your brows.” 

“Regina did that.” 

“Well, it is not at all appropriate fora girl of your 
age nor of your rank.” 

“Baroness de Plailly uses powder and Mme. Black 
too and handsome Mme. Farrot. Everyone! 

“How old is Baroness Plailly?” 

“Thirty.” 

“Are you thirty, and can you do what ladies do?” 

“Why not, if what they do is not bad?” 

“It is bad to lie, and powder is a lie.” 

“Then everyone lies.” 

“You need not do as everyone does. You do not 
mean to tell me that everyone pencils? That is a lie 
too. ” 

“Ella pencils hers.” 

“Who is Ella?” 

“Ella Webster, an American, who is my friend.” 

“You are not an American. We must leave eccen- 
tricities to foreigners; when one is as pretty a girl as 
you, one should be contented to be simple. Simplicity 
is as much of a virtue as truth.” 

“Ah! if I were as pale as you, I would not use pow- 
der.” 

“Is it to hide your blooming cheeks that you pow- 
der? ” 

“To hide my red skin. It is vulgar to have a red 
face! Come let us go.” 

“Before starting, let us remove that powder from 
your face and the lead from your brows.” 

lO 


146 


MICHEUNB 


“Ah no, no indeed.** 

Firmness would have to be exercised or Germaine 
would lose her authority forever. 

“You would not vex me?” 

“And how about you?” 

“I? I am obliged to speak to you thus, and I assure 
you that it gives me pain. It is, however, my dut}^ to 
make of you a refined, lady-like girl, and I must fulfill 
my duty. You understand that when you went out 
with Regina, and when people saw you powdered, 
that was not so very serious. Regina was only a serv- 
ant; but when you go out with me matters are ver}" 
different! I am your governess, it is my duty to train 
you; it is therefore, necessary, though it rhay grieve 
me, to correct your language when it is improper, as 
it is imperative for me to correct your manners when 
they are unlady-like. ” 

Micheline for sometime seemed to be reflecting, 
looking at Germaine as if to read her. 

“Is it true,” she said at length, “that you do not 
like to correct me?” 

“It is very true, my child. I assure you that I am 
miserable when I have to reprove you; do you not see 
it in my eyes, do you not hear it in my voice?” 

“I think so. Then would it please you if I were 
to wash my face?” 

“Greatly. ” 

“Very well; I will do so.” And the child ran into 
the dressing-room. 

That was a triumph which delighted Germaine. 

By means of persuasion, by means of firmness com- 


MICHELINE 


147 


bined with gentleness she had conquered the rebell- 
ious spirit. If Micheline had not been a tender-heart- 
ed girl would she have succeeded? Micheline soon 
returned, her skin fresh and rosy. “Now?” said she 
with a bow. 

Germaine had resolved not to give way to bursts of 
affection which might betray her, but she was so happy 
that she forgot her determination, and taking Michel- 
ine in her arms she embraced her, murmuring softly: 

“Dear child, dear child! ” 

“Ah, I am glad you are pleased!” said Micheline 
in surprise. 

Those words recalled her to the reality of her sit- 
uation. She must not betray herself. 

“What pleases me most,” said she, resuming her 
role of governess, “is that you voluntarily did what I 
demanded of you.” 

“Had I not washed my face what would have 
happened? ” 

“We would not have gone out.” 

“Ah, I should have seen about that!” 

"Let us go,” said Germaine, who thought it pru- 
dent to cut short that conversation in order not to 
mar the success she had attained. She felt very 
much encouraged; it surely would not be as difficult 
to accustom Micheline to docility as she had at 
first feared. But in that she was mistaken; she had 
a proof of it that same evening. 

During dinner the birds were free as usual, and 
circled around the table. The members of the family 


148 


MICHELIhlE 


familiar with Mile, Flouc' s habits, poured wine into 
their glasses before water. 

All was going on pleasantly and the Princess 
listened attentively and proudly to Micheline’s de- 
scription of her successes at the ball, when Pillard 
perched beside Witold and tried to eat out of his 
plate. 

Twice Witold repulsed him, but the bird returned. 

“Take that sparrow away!” said the Prince to 
Saint-Denis; “he is insupportable.” 

Saint-Denis had a certain respect for Witold, who 
seemed to him to sustain the honor of the Sobolew- 
skis, but on the other hand he feared Micheline. 

Before obeying, he raised his eyes to her in order 
to ask permission to do what was required of him, 
Flouc and Pillard being sacred birds which no one 
dared to touch. 

“Take him away!“ said Micheline. 

Immediately Saint-Denis put out his hand to take 
the bird gently and to carry him to a perch, but 
Pillard, who was not used to such liberties, tried to 
escape. Saint-Denis tightened his hold upon him, the 
bird struggled and finally escaped, leaving the feath- 
ers of his tail in the astonished footman’s fingers. 

“Oh, the idiot !” exclaimed Micheline, springing up; 
“he has torn out Pillard^ s feathers! You wretch!” 

Saint-Denis had been in the family twelve years, 
and he had a certain amount of pride; he turned to 
the Princess for protection, but she did not seem to 
heed his appeal. 

Germaine saw and understood him. 


MICHELINE 


149 


“Mile. Michel ine!” said she severely. 

But Micheline did not reply; she left the table and 
tried to catch her bird, which in affright fluttered 
about the room. 

“Micheline, come to dinner!” said the Princess. 

“Dinner? Ah yes! And this poor, little thing!” 

Finally she succeeded in catching him; she caressed 
and consoled him, at times turning to Saint-Denis 
and murmuring: “Beast, beast!” After dinner when 
they were in the salon, Germaine approached the 
Princess when she perceived that she was alone. 

“I think,” said she, “that Mademoiselle Micheline 
should be reprimanded for having spoken as she did 
to Saint-Denis.” 

“Certainly, she was very sharp. But think of her 
anger on seeing the poor bird she loves so much 
treated thus by that awkward fellow; scold her, if 
you like, but not at once, that I may not be a wit- 
ness; and do not take her to task too severely.” 


X 


When nine o'clock struck, Germaine signed to Mich- 
eline; but the latter did not seem to see her; she 
was looking at the pictures in a volume of a “Journey 
around the World,” which Jacques, seated near her, 
was explaining. 

Germaine had to take her by the hand, for she felt 
that if she yielded that evening her influence would 
be weakened. 

“It is time to go,” said she. 

“Let us finish our journey.” * 

“You can resume it to-morrow.” 

Michel ine suffered Germaine to lead her away, but 
with a discontented air which boded no good, and as 
they ascended the stairs she did not utter a word. 
Germaine would have liked to see her in a different 
mood as she had to take her to task, but she 
could not unfortunately leave that until the morrow. 
It was her fate to be forced to rebuke when she pre- 
ferred to embrace; it was her punishment — the expia- 
tion of her fault; if Micheline had been trained by a 
mother she would not have had to be corrected. 

As Micheline was about to enter her room, she 
stopped her. “Come with me,” said she, “I have 
something to tell you.” 

Micheline followed her governess into a room ad- 
X50 


MICHELINE 


151 


joining Germaine's, which was being converted into 
a study, with a large table in the center, maps upon 
the walls, and a bookcase filled with books; she did 
not seat herself, but leaned against the table. 

“My dear child, ” said Germaine in her gentlest 
tones, “it grieves me deeply to find fault with you, 
but it is impossible to allow an occurrence such as 
that was at dinner-time to pass without reproving 
you for having been angry with Saint-Denis.” 

“Why did he tear out Pillar s feathers?” 

“He did not do it purposely; you know that very 
well.” 

“Then he is an idiot; no one but an idiot would 
catch a bird by its tail.” 

“A girl in your position should not call a servant 
names.” 

“When I am angry Ido not know what I am saying. 
Do you not think I was vexed when I saw Pillar s 
feathers pulled out? I love my bird.” 

“You are right.” But that concession did not calm 
Micheline, who continued to grow more excited as she 
replied with quivering lips: “Yes, I am right! I have 
no father to love, I have no sister, I have no relatives 
like other girls, I have only a bird, and they tear out 
his plumage.” 

That touching complaint moved Germaine; no 
father, no mother! Whose fault was it? upon whom 
rested the blame? 

She must not give way to her emotion. 

“Certainly, my child, I appreciate your sorrow; 
but if it was so very deep, it should not render you 


152 


MICHELINE 


oblivious of the fact that Saint-Denis has been in 
your godmother’s service a number of years, and on 
the other hand, you should not forget that a girl in 
your station does not make use of such expressions as 
^beast.’ You should always be polite, you have not 
been in this particular case.” 

‘‘When one is angry — ” 

“One does wrong — and, when one has done wrong, 
the first thing to do is to acknowledge it. I expect 
that to-morrow morning you will tell Saint-Denis you 
are sorry for what you said to him.” 

“Never in my life!” 

Germaine seeing Micheline’s humor, judged it pru- 
dent not to insist on an apology, at least not that even- 
ing. With a nature as proud and resolute as that of 
that child, nothing must be urged on her; the best 
way was to allow time to act upon her. 

“You rebel because you have not reflected,” said 
Germaine, still more gently than was her wont, “and 
also because you are, as yet, vexed by the accident 
which befell your bird. But to-morrow morning a 
voice will have told you in your sleep — that mysterious 
voice which says: ‘You have done well,’ or, ‘You 
have done ill,’ and you will comprehend that I have 
a right to ask of you that word of regret for the poor 
man whom you have unjustly humiliated and pained 
this evening. To-morrow then!” 

“Neither to-morrow nor any other time!” exclaimed 
Micheline. “I should lie, and I will not.” 

“You would tell an untruth were you xo say it this 


MICHELINE 


15 


evening, but you will not lie by saying it to-morrow, 
for you will be sorry by that time.” 

”I tell you I shall not be.” And she stamped her 
foot. ‘^You bore me to death!” 

“Micheline! ” 

“You do! You tell me to do one thing, and then 
directly afterward you tell me to do something else; 
there is no end to it. I shall tell my godmother I 
will not study with you — you must go! I will not 
study with you, never, never, never! ” 

Germaine had taken two steps forward in order to 
lay her hand upon the child’s lips, but as she finished 
that speech, she paused and looked at her in conster 
nation without thinking of imposing silence upon her. 

Her daughter spoke to her thus? Still in her aston- 
ishment she did not lose her presence of mind and 
she realized that all she could say at that moment 
would only serve to aggravate the situation. 

Micheline was not in any condition to listen to 
reason, nor would affectionate words touch her. Grad- 
ually the child had reached a nervous crisis which 
rendered her beside herself so that she was almost 
unaccountable for what she said or did. 

An ordinary governess would no doubt have tried to 
put down that revolt, but she was not an ordinary 
governess; if Micheline looked upon her merely as 
an instructress, she was none the less her mother, 
and it was as a mother that she judged her daughter, 
advancing all sorts of reasons and excuses which an- 
other governess would not think of. 

She glanced at her a moment without speaking, her 


154 


MICHELINE 


eyes filled with grief and tender indulgence, then 
turning away she entered her room. What would the 
child do? She could not re^nain in the study very 
long, for surely she would retire to rest. T»^do so 
she had the choice of two routes, one to make the tour 
of the hall, and the other which she always took 
through Germaine’s room into the dressing-room 
which communicated with her chamber. 

If she took that way, would she pass through without 
speaking? Would she not utter a word, a sign of 
regret? 

For some time Germaine listened without hearing 
a sound, then a door creaked on its hinges, it was the 
one leading into the hall; she certainly would not 
pass through her room, there would be no word, no 
sign of yielding. It was a disappointment to Ger- 
maine which caused the tears to rush to her eyes, for 
she did not think Micheline would remain obdurate. 

She could hear Micheline in her room replying ab- 
ruptly to the remarks made by Regina, who was as- 
sisting her to disrobe. 

When the castle was wrapped in silence, Germaine 
thought she would enter Michel ine’s room. Was the 
poor little thing asleep? Was she calmer? Perhaps re- 
morse was keeping her awake? Perhaps she was weep- 
ing. It would be so sweet to embrace her. It would 
be so delightful to be comforted and reassured. Her 
sleep that night was broken by frightful dreams and 
nightmares; once again she was leaving her daughter 
in the forest; when she found her, it was to lose her 
again. 


MICHELINE 


155 


In her sleep she fancied there was a noise at her 
door; in affright she sat up and looked around her; 
it was daybreak. 

Some one knocked at the door. 

“Are you asleep, Mme. Germaine?’* 

It was Micheline. 

“No. What is it, my child?” she cried. 

“Oh, nothing. I just wanted to ask you if you were 
asleep, because I fancied you were not.” 

“I am not asleep.” 

"Then may I come in?” 

“Certainly. ” 

Micheline appeared in her long night-dress with 
bare feet and disheveled hair. Walking slowly and 
with embarrassment, she advanced toward the bed. 

“I heard it,” she murmured faintly. 

“What did you hear?” asked Germaine, not com- 
prehending her meaning. 

Micheline replied still lower: “The voice of which 
you spoke to me last night, the voice which says ‘You 
have done well,* or, ‘You have done ill.* It told me 
I had done wrong, and for that reason I came to tell 
you that I will study with you as much as you wish 
because you do not annoy me.” 

“Ah, my child,” cried Germaine impulsively, and 
drawing Micheline toward her, she pressed her pas- 
sionately to her breast. . 

She had conquered her child; ’^pw nothing nor any 
power could take her from her. 


XI 


Germaine was eager to know what Micheline’s in- 
fancy had been like, and what had taken place in her 
life up to the day on which she had seen her again 
on the shore at Trouville. Had she been ill? When 
had she walked alone? At what time had she com- 
menced to talk? 

As to that period of her life Micheline could not 
reply and when occasionally the Princess alluded to 
that time, what she said was too vague to present any 
great interest. Moreover Germaine listened to her with 
a sentiment of jealousy which she could not resist and 
which destroyed all the pleasure she might have taken 
in such recitals. 

It was all very well to say that that jealousy was 
unjust, and that she should be grateful to the Princess, 
that it was owing to the care she had lavished upon 
her, that Micheline had become the fine girl she was; 
nothing could make her listen to reason; instinct, a 
sort of bestial instinct possessed her. 

That which was of more interest to her than what 
the Princess said, was an embrasure of the door on 
which Micheline^ s height was written annually. With 
those dates and ciphers she saw her grow and followed 
her step by step, from year to year. 

As Philbert and his wife were still in the Princess' 
156 


MICHELINE 


157 


service, Germaine had been able to draw out the nurse 
who asked nothing better than to dilate upon Miche- 
line's earliest years. 

If the nurse chatted freely and without inquiring 
as to the reasons for the question asked her, it was 
not so with Regina, but Germaine only addressed the 
woman when it was strictly necessary. 

To question Regina was to permit her to ask ques- 
tions in her turn. And where would she stop? Ger- 
maine therefore had to be contented with what Michel- 
ine could tell her herself of her childhood. Michel- 
ine had two natures; or at least she seemed to have; 
one, noisy, vivacious, full of life, of gayety, when she 
was with her companions; the other, more subdued, 
more composed, pensive and even melancholy when 
she was alone. 

One day when Micheline was speaking of her child- 
hood, of her dolls and her toys, she suddenly inter- 
rupted her story with: “You know I have never had 
a mamma, and it is very fortunate.” 

“Fortunate that you never had a mother?” cried Ger- 
maine in amazement. 

“Fortunate that I never knew her.” 

“Why, my child?” she asked unsteadily. "How 
can you think it fortunate never to have known your 
mother; it is the greatest misfortune a child can 
know. ” 

“When the mamma is good, but not when she is 
bad.” 

“Who could have told 3^ou that yours was bad?" ex- 
claimed Germaine. 


158 


MICHELINE 


“Since she deserted me, she could not have loved 
me.” 

“Did Regina tell you so?” 

“Regina, my godmother, everyone. But it is not 
necessary for anyone to tell me, I feel it.” 

Undoubtedly the blow was severe, and wounded 
Germaine deeply; up to that time her child had cher- 
ished the thought that her mother was “bad,” and 
instead of grieving that she had never known her, she 
rejoiced, at least she had been told that she should 
rejoice! 

“Have you ever seen a bad mother?’* she asked. 

“No.” 

“Even among the beasts have you not always seen 
the mothers care for their young lovingly and ten- 
derly.” 

“Yes.” 

“Then how can you admit the thought that your 
mother was an exception, and that she has not done 
foi you what your cat, your dog or your birds would 
do for their young.” 

“Cats and dogs do not carry their little ones into the 
woods and abandon them.” 

Although Germaine was familiar with the terrible 
logic of children, she had not expected that reply. 

“When a cat has kittens,” continued Micheline, seeing 
the effect she had produced, “she brings them to be 
cared for. I was taken to the forest to be eaten by 
beasts.” 

The difficulty of Germaine^s position was to find an 
explanation which sufficing for the time being, would 


MICHELINE 


159 


not compromise the future, and of such a nature that 
if some day she could avow the truth or a portion of 
the truth Micheline would not reply; "Why did you 
deceive me?" 

"There is one thing," said she, "that you look upon 
as positive, and which, however, you know nothing 
about, neither you, nor your godmother, nor anyone 
else, and that is whether your mother abandoned you 
voluntarily." 

Micheline, touched by that argument, reflected sev- 
eral seconds. 

"It is true," said she. "I do. not know." 

"Then if your mother did no act voluntarily, she is 
not culpable, she is not to blame as you say she is; and 
as 1 just demonstrated to you that there were no bad 
mothers, you should not think that you were aban- 
doned voluntarily." 

"You believe then that I was stolen from my 
mother?" 

"Your mother alone could reply." 

"That is true, and you are not my mother. But at 
any rate, you think that I may have been stolen?" 

"I think that your abandonment was not voluntary, 
and that instead of censuring your mother you should 
pity her. Can you fancy what she must have suffered, 
for she loved, she adored you." 

Surprised at the passionate warmth with which 
Germaine uttered those last words, Micheline looked 
steadily at her for some time as if to read her heart. 

"But you did not know her?" she murmured. 

"Do you not know that I have lost a child, and by 


160 


MICHELINE 


my sorrow can I not gauge that of your mother?” 

“Was it a little girl?” 

“Yes.” 

“How old was she?” 

“She was very young.” 

Overcome by emotion, Germaine buried her face 
in both hands, not daring to glance at her child. 

“She is dead,” continued Micheline; “one cannot 
keep those one loves from death; my godmother could 
not save the Prince and she loved him dearly. But 
I am not dead ! Why has my mother never sought me? 
Why does she not claim me?” 

“You may be sure that if she has not sought you, 
and we do not know that she has not, you may be sure, 
I repeat, that it has been impossible for her to do so. 
It is not only against death that one is powerless, 
there are circumstances, too, which restrain the most 
resolute will.” 

“What circumstances?” 

“Sickness, exile, poverty, a thousand things which 
are beyond us, chance, fate.” 

Germaine saw"*that those vague words had no mean- 
ing for Micheline, or at least did not affect her. 

“Who knows, she may be seeking you now?” she 
added hastily. 

“Do you think so?” exclaimed Micheline her eyes 
sparkling. 

“Would you be glad to find your mamma?” 

“If she sought me, she would not be wicked, she 
would love me, she would not have abandoned me out 


MICHELINE 


161 


of simple wickedness. I have a godmother whom I 
love very dearly, but a mother! A mother!” 

She uttered that word with so tender a look, in so 
Sweet, so caressing a voice, that Germaine felt her 
heart fail her and a flood of tears gushed from her 
eyes notwithstanding her efforts to restrain them. 

“Oh, Madame Germaine,” said Micheline, “forgive 
me! You are thinking of your little girl and I have 
caused you pain! Do not let us speak of it any 
more. ” 

“Ah, no, let us speak of it often. These tears are 
the sweetest I have shed since I lost my child.” 


II 


XII 


Since her stay at Hopsore, Germaine had brought 
about a great deal more than she had fancied could be 
possible; for ten years, everything had been against 
her; now all was for her, fortune once more favored 
her. 

At first she had said to herself: “If I could live near 
my child!” Now she said: “If I could have my child 
to myself! ” The incident at the dinner-table fur- 
nished her with an excellent pretext for realizing that 
idea, and she immediately broached the subject to the 
Princess: “I scolded Micheline, as you advised me to.” 

“I asked you not to scold her too severely.” 

“That is precisely what I did ; however, I do not 
know if the child has been corrected so that she will 
never repeat the offense.” 

“We should not require impossibilities.” 

“Indulgence is very easy for you, but much less so 
for me. I am compelled to make her obey me or run 
the risk of losing my authority; as I have a horror 
of scoldings, which, moreover, spoil a disposition, I 
should like to avoid occasion for finding fault with 
Micheline.” 

“That is a plan of which I approve.” 

“Then I propose that you accord me permission to 
dine alone with Micheline.” 

162 


MICHELINE 


163 


“What? To dine alone with Micheline? ” exclaimed 
the Princess. 

“It is the custom in a number of families, and it is 
general in England for children never to take their 
meals with their parents; they only appear at the 
table for a short while at dessert.” 

She was unfortunate in the choice of her example, 
for the Princess had heard so much from Beaumoussel 
of what was done and of what was not done in Eng- 
land that she abhorred English customs. 

“I know, I know,” said she, “but what is done in 
England does not concern me. The English boast of 
training their children better, of loving them better 
than the mothers of any other country love theirs; as 
for me, I only find one superiority in the English and 
that is their pride, in that, I agree with you, they 
could pass for models. With regard to education, 
that is another thing. There are English women who 
train their children well, and there are French women 
who train theirs just as well. I adhere to my customs 
and shall have Micheline at my table.” 

“But—” 

“I know what you would say. When one desires 
quiet, one relegates the children to the nursery; that 
is selfish; when one wants gayety, life, one keeps them 
near one. And that is my case. Micheline, with her 
laughter, her noise, her birds, her speeches, her 
replies, is the very joy of my life, and I do not wish 
to deprive myself of it. Perhaps that is selfishness 
of another kind, but, at any rate, I prefer it to the 
other, because it is my way.” 


164 


MICHELINE 


Germaine had the realization of her project so much 
at heart, that she would not give it up in spite of the 
opposition she met with. 

“I beg your pardon for insisting," said she. 

The Princess interrupted, "Do not insist; all that you 
could say would be useless. I have told you of my 
personal, selfish reasons for keeping Micheline with 
me, but I have others too, which concern the child 
exclusively, and which I shall explain to you, at the 
same time asking your co-operation. You know that 
by adopting Micheline, I could not confer upon her the 
name and title of the Sobolewskis, although I might 
assure her my fortune." 

Germaine had supposed that Micheline would bear 
the name of Sobolewski some day on account of her 
adoption by the Princess, and that hope had been to 
her a sort of reparation which she thought Providence 
would accord the child. Since she was a Sobolewski, 
the poor, little thing, was it not just that she should 
bear the name and title of her father? 

"But I thought," said she, "that by adoption one 
conferred one’s name upon the adopted." 

"Undoubtedly that is so when the person who adopts 
is a man, but when it is a woman, her maiden name, 
not that of her husband, is given the child. I have 
consulted lawyers on that point. In order to obtain 
that name for her, I have need of your co-operation. 
For not being able to give it to her myself," added 
the Princess, "it can only be obtained by having it 
conferred upon her by another, and that other shall 
be Prince Witold, who must become her husband." 


MICHELINB 


165 


“Prince Witold?” exclaimed Germaine. “Why he 
is twenty-seven or eight years old!” 

“He is twenty-six and Micheline is ten. I confess 
that there is quite a difference, but it is not so great 
as to render a marriage between them impossible. 
Age has nothing to do with love. I know something 
about that; there was quite a difference between the 
Prince and me, but it did not prevent us from loving 
one another tenderly, passionately. Witold knows of 
my intentions,” continued the Princess, “but of course, 
Micheline does not; she was too young when I formed 
the project, and she is not yet old enough for me to 
speak to her of marriage. As for Prince Witold, he 
seems disposed to accept Micheline as his wife, though 
of course now she seems to him a mere child. I 
assure you that if he had replied, upon the day on 
which I first broached the subject to him, that he 
would accept my proposal, I should have been startled, 
for then his acceptance could only have been inspired 
by the hope of gain. But, thank God, he did not! 
Although sensible of the advantages resultant from a 
weathly marriage, he did not consider them. He de- 
sired to wait. What would Micheline be like? He could 
not tell. Would he love her? Would she love him? 
Those questions would have to remain unanswered 
for a time. Year after year Witold thinks Micheline 
more charming. He takes a delight, which I consider 
exquisite, in seeing the child, who is one day to be- 
come his wife, grow and develop. But Micheline 
pays no more attention to Witold than to my other 
brothers-in-law. Princes Adam and Ladislas; he is a 


166 


MICHELINE 


relative, that is all. At least, I think so, for with 
children one cannot tell.” 

“Why, Micheline is innocence itself!” cried Ger- 
maine. 

“I know it,” replied the Princess. “Still, notwith- 
standing that innocence of which I am aware, it is 
possible that she has suspicions. There are children 
who no matter how innocent they are, are singularly 
quick at all things concerning love and marriage; and 
precocious as she is, Micheline may be one of those. 
What I require of you is, that you should sound her 
upon that point delicately. It would do no good for 
me to question her ; she would answer me as she always 
does when she can not say what she wants to. What 
I want to know principally is what Micheline thinks 
of Witold; for those first impressions may later on 
have a determining influence upon her sentiments. 
If those impressions are not favorable to Witold, you 
must seek to change them by demonstrating to her 
that she is mistaken. That is easy for an intelligent 
woman like you.” 

“I have very little influence over Micheline to un- 
dertake anything of the kind.” 

“That lack of influence will not prevent you from 
winning her, I am certain; and, in proportion as Mich- 
eline gains confidence in you, your word will weigh 
upon her heart and mind with more force. I do not 
wish to use violent means, and when she is old enough 
to marry I will not force her to marry Witold if I 
am positive that she does not love him. But I desire 
that marriage, and I want to do everything to render 


MICHELINE 


167 


it possible. I shall therefore use all the means in my 
power, and I would like you to aid me. Can I count 
on you?” 

“My duty is to obey you.” 

"My God, it is an education, like any other. I not 
only deliver up to you Micheline’s mind but her heart. 
Now you see why I do not wish to keep Micheline 
from the table, since it is a part of my plan to throw 
her with Witold as much as possible in order to accus- 
tom them to one another? After taking the trouble 
to bring Witold to Hopsore and to retain him here, 
I do not wish to banish Micheline.” 


XIII 


If Germaine offered no objections to the Princess’ 
project of marriage, it was not because she had 
none; but if she had not agreed with her, she 
would have emerged from her role of governess — 
which would have been very imprudent. What would 
it take for the Princess to send her away? An awk- 
ward mistake, too direct interference, anything 
that would clash with the Princess’ authority or 
arouse her jealousy. It could easily be seen that 
she looked upon it as her sole right to love 
Micheline, and that she would never permit anyone to 
take from her any of the child’s affection. She would 
brook no opposition to her plans. Micheline belonged 
to her and she could do with her as she wished; 
educate her, marry her, map out her life for her; the 
co-operation she asked for was that which would help 
in making a success of what she had decided upon,, 
not that which could help her in forming a decision.. 

For Germaine it was an unexpected joy, it seemed 
almost wonderful that Micheline should bear the name- 
and title of the Sobolewskis. Daughter of a Sobole- 
wski, she would become Princess Sobolewski; in her 
eyes that was providential, a certain sign that God 
had pardoned her fault. 

Was she not disturbed by the thought of the rela- 

tes 


MICHELINE 


im 

tionship which would exist between husband and wife? 
Did not uncles frequently marry their nieces? If there 
were anything improper about such cases, was it not 
only when the uncle took the place in a measure of a 
father, and that intimacy had never existed between 
Micheline and Witold. 

But before everything she must know more about 
Witold. The first impression he had produced upon 
her had not been favorable. Expecting to find in him 
a second Casimir, she had been painfully surprised to 
see how little he resembled his elder brother, either 
in his proud beauty or his soft gentleness — or in any- 
thing which went to make up Casimir’s charm. That 
he amounted to nothing, and was idle, while his broth- 
ers, Adam and Ladislas, princes as well as himself, 
worked, was certainly not to his credit; still there 
might be extenuating circumstances in the idle life 
he led, and which was not like that of a man who had 
not a sou of income. 

Accustomed for several years to the thought of one 
day by his marriage with Micheline, having the dis- 
position of the Princess^ large fortune, he had sub- 
mitted to the paralyzing influence of that hope and 
allowed himself to be engulfed in a worldly existence. 
For that alone, however, he must not be condemned. 

Determined, until she had become better acquainted 
with Witold, not to influence Micheline in the sense 
the Princess had wished her to, she did not, however, 
want to await that moment in order to find out what 
the child thought of him and what sentiments she 
cherished for him. 


170 


MICHELINE 


It was evident that she did not seek his society, and 
that her manner toward him did not resemble her man- 
ner toward the Princess’ nephew. 

But the difference of age and character sufficed 
to explain that contrast: Witold was twenty-six; 
Jacques Hebertot seventeen; Witold was nonchalant, 
disdainful, serious; Jacques was always gay, frank, 
good-natured, much more youthful to all appearances 
than he really was, while Witold seemed older. 

That was undoubtedly sufficient for Micheline to 
prefer the one to the other; and it was sufficient to 
explain the few words she had said of them: those 
who grew angry at Flouc'^s performances were disagree- 
able, those who did not, were pleasant. Witold was, 
therefore, ill-natured, while Jacques was not! 

Notwithstanding that classification, Micheline might 
judge Witold from other points of view, and it would 
be well to know those judgments. So Germaine ques- 
tioned her, of course, in a roundabout fashion. 

“Is Prince Witold going to remain at the castle 
long?” 

“I do not know,” replied Micheline with supreme 
indifference. 

"It seems to me that it should interest you. Prince 
Witold’s presence here must afford you diversion.” 

“Witold diverting! That is good!” 

“But—” 

“Do you think him amusing, Mme. Germaine?” 

“Amusing? It is not necessary for a man in Prince 
Witold’s position to be amusing.” 

“J — if I tell you, you will not repeat it to my god- 


MICHELINE 


171 


mother, for it would give her pain? — I consider him 
a bore. Do you call a man amusing/’ continued 
Micheline, “who is always fatigued, whom nothing 
interests and everything bores; who can neither walk, 
open his eyes to look about him, nor his mouth in 
order to speak?” 

She began to walk about the room imitating Wit- 
old’s gait, dragging her feet, bending her knees, 
scarcely opening her eyes. 

“There, to be candid, is that not comical?” she asked 
pausing before Germaine, and extending her arms with 
a despairing gesture. Then she continued: “In the 
morning he is sleepy, during the day he is dull, at 
night he wakes up, but it is to go to Trouville. I 
have asked him what he was going to do there and he 
replied ‘To play.’ Why does he not play with god- 
mother who would be so delighted?” 

All that did not indicate a very lively sympathy. 
But that was not all. Very soon Micheline contin- 
ued as if she were relieved to be able to utter what 
she had upon her mind: “I might as well tell you all! 
He compromises me!” 

“What! He compromises you?” exclaimed Ger- 
maine in amazement. 

“It seems that he fancies he will become my husband, 
and you see, it is absurd! A man of his age! ” 

“Who has told you that he thinks of becoming your 
husband? No one would dream of marriage in con- 
nection with a child of your age?” 

“Do you think so? well, my godmother wants to 
marry me to him, and he will be willing — later 


172 


MICHELINE 


on, of course, but that is none the less compromising 
and ridiculous.” 

“Who could have told you so?” 

“Ah, do you imagine that a girl of my age sees and 
hears nothing? I have seen certain things and I have 
heard others. Do not fancy that I keep my eyes in 
my pocket and that my ears do no service. There are 
people who talk too! ” 

“Regina? ” 

“Suppose it was Regina? she is not so bad, and she 
knows things. ” Micheline seemed really frightened 
at what Regina knew. “It annoys me besides,” she 
added, after a pause. “It is not chic^ you know, to be 
married for one’s money. And if Witold marries me, 
it will be for my godmother’s fortune. You know 
he has not a sou. My godmother, I am positive, 
gives him money. I can see that, for when he needs 
any, he is very friendly with her; he comes home to 
dinner every evening, and there is no end to their con- 
versations and secrets. Godmother does not seem to 
be satisfied. But her affairs do not concern me: I 
have enough of my own.” 

“And what affairs have you?” asked Germaine. 

“What affairs have I? why, those they create for 
me. Do you think it is very pleasant to have everyone 
know that one’s hand is promised? It keeps away 
lovers!” 

Germaine recalled the time of her earliest youth, 
when she too had had lovers who had asked her if she 
would marry them when she was grown up, but if she 
^^t that date had, like all young girls, been preoccupied 


MICHELINE 


173 


with the thoughts of marriage, it was with less pre- 
cocity. 

“One does not have lovers at your age,” she said 
severely. 

“Is that so? Ella has three. A secretary of the 
Embassy, the son of handsome Mme. Favrot, and her 
drawing-master. ’* 

“How old is Ella?” 

“Twelve. Jeanne de Plailly, whom you know, has 
two. All my friends have them.” 

“And have you none?” 

Micheline hesitated, but at length pride conquered 
discretion. 

“I have one.” 

“Who is it?” 

At that question, Micheline grew indignant. 

“Do you think I shall tell you? That would not be 
right. It is my secret!” 


XIV 


Who was Micheline’s lover? 

The question did not cause Germaine much un- 
easiness, for she knew what children’s love affairs 
were. Micheline was somewhat precocious, that was 
all; her frankness proved her innocence. How 
many excuses were there‘ for that precocity: the 
way in which she lived; the idle chatter of a maid; 
her companionship with children who fancied they had 
lovers, or who at least boasted of having them. She 
simply imitated them. 

At any rate, that lover was not Witold, and the senti- 
ments she uttered did not seem to point toward mar- 
riage. Would time modify the child’s impressions? 
That was probable. 

At fifteen Micheline would see Witold with other 
eyes than those with which she saw him at that mo- 
ment; she would probably be dazzled by the title he 
bore; she might be influenced by her godmother’s 
wishes. 

On the other hand it might be that her impressions, 
instead of becoming modified and bringing about the 
union, would take a more accentuated character from 
day to day which would render that marriage more 
difficult. She had judged her as a child; but if at ten 
years of age, she was surprised to see Witold accept 

174 


MICHELWE 175 

'money from his sister-in-law, at fifteen would she not 
scorn the man who worked upon the weakness and 
kindness of a woman? Would she not say with more 
emphasis: "It is not chic to be married for one’s money. " 

Although later on she might happen to accept Wit- 
old, it would be interesting for the time-being to learn 
who that lover was whom Micheline had refused to 
name. 

In all probability it was only some piece of childish- 
ness, but she must not depend upon probabilities; it 
was necessary to draw from her an avowal which the 
child would assuredly have held back had she known 
that it was her mother in whom she was confiding. 

Since she had accompanied Micheline everywhere, 
she had met almost all of her acquaintances ; but feel- 
ing convinced that the child was "innocence itself," 
as she had said to the Princess, she had paid attention 
only to the girls. She took a genuine interest in 
Micheline’ s companions; Jeanne de Plailly, a robust 
blonde, who was playing croquet on the sands the day 
of Germaine’s arrival, and to whom Micheline had ad- 
dressed this astonishing phrase: "If you wish, I will 
leave you at your door as we pass. I have my car- 
riage." 

Leonide Hubert, who insisted upon being given the 
title of Baroness, and who never called Micheline any- 
thing but "Princess," was the best posted of all the 
children in heraldry, and spent the lion’s share of her 
time reading the Almanack de Gotha in order to find 
the Prince or the Duke whom she could marry. There 
were two or three others not at all striking in appear- 


176 


MICHELINB 


ance, whom up to that time she had not studied par- 
ticularly, as they did not exercise any influence over 
Micheline. Ella, alone, was not of the company, not 
having yet arrived at Trouville, where she was impa- 
tiently awaited by all the girls who seemed to follow 
her leadership; which fact had become clear to Ger- 
maine since she had discovered that the young Ameri- 
can had three lovers, among them a secretary of the 
embassy. 

Germaine had been so much interested in Micheline’s 
girl friends that she had paid no heed to the boys. 
But now that she had been put upon her guard, she 
opened her eyes and looked about her. 

There were very few young men who held any in- 
tercourse with the little girls; they were too old to 
pay them any attention or to wish to do so. 

The only one who fulfilled the conditions of a “beau” 
was Isabelle Favrot’s brother, a boy of thirteen, 
called “handsome Favrot,” whose vanity made him 
insufferably insipid. It did not take long for Germaine 
to see that Micheline cared nothing for him. 

Leaving Favrot out of the question, only Jacques, 
the Princess’ grand-nephew remained, and if Ger- 
maine had not thought of him at first, it was because 
he had only been at Hopsore a short time, and because 
he was going away to be absent from France several 
years. 

From what Micheline had told her she was con- 
vinced that in her stories of love she was actuated 
more by vanity than sentiment, and that those chil- 
dren before whom their elders spoke so freely, accus- 


MICHELIhJE 


177 


tomed to hear love spoken of as a great event in the 
life of women, did not wish to be behind the rest; 
they too had lovers, several of them, but Micbeline 
not having any “because when one is betrothed in ad- 
vance, that keeps others away,” had taken one whom 
chance threw in her way at a time when she appeared 
at a disadvantage among her more favored companions. 
“I have one too!” The naval officer was undoubtedly 
of more account than the secretary, more chic than the 
drawing-master. 

If such was the state of affairs, there was no need 
to worry. Jacques once away on his ship, Micheline 
would think no more of him, 'and would replace him by 
another; but as the possibility of such an arrangement 
did not satisfy Germaine, who desired certainty, she 
determined to cross-examine the young sailor. 

That was not difficult, for while Witold treated her 
with ineffable disdain, never addressing a remark to 
her, not even deigning to glance at her, Jacques, on 
the contrary, seemed to like her. 

“By the manner in which you treat Micheline, ” she 
said to him one day, “I can see that you love chil- 
dren. ” 

“Very much,” he replied, “and it is strange too, for 
1 have never had any brothers or sisters; but after 
all, it may be because I have no one to love. With 
children one is never exposed to deception; if they like 
one, they make friends at once.” 

“You have your aunt.” 

“Certainly, and she has been very kind to me, but 
I have seen little of her, and then my gratitude and 


12 


178 


MICHELINE 


respect for my aunt do not consume all of my affeC' 
tion. ” 

He smiled somewhat sadly. 

“I lost my mother when I was three years old, my 
father when I was seven; I was then sent to school 
where I remained until I went on board the ^Borda,^ 
You see, I have never known any family ties.” 

“Is it that which has attached you to Micheline?” 

“Undoubtedly too because she is charming. That 
is an inexpressive word, I own, however it is the only 
one which will express the effect she has upon one. 
I remember her when she was a very insignificant 
child, but as she now is, I shall never forget her.” 

“She is very fond of you.” 

“It is a pity we are not brother and sister. I am 
sure that when I am at the end of the earth I shall 
regret it more than once, recalling my stny here which 
has left such pleasant memories in my Iieait.” 

“Shall you write to her?” 

“Not only have I promised to write to her, but to 
send her curious animals from the countries to v.hich 
I am going. You will have a menagerie, a zoological 
garden. ” 

When Germaine urged him to talk, he gave her no 
satisfaction; he would have liked Micheline for his 
sister, and that wish was natural enough; evidently 
he did not admit that there could exist between him 
and that child anything but a fraternal sentiment, and 
it would have required the perverse intuition of femi- 
nine innocence to have made a lover of him. 


MICHELINE 


179 


When he left, Germaine had proof that she was not 
mistaken. 

Germaine and Micheline went with him to the sta- 
tion where he took the train for Cherbourg, his port; 
the adieux were long and* tender. 

When they re-entered the carriage to return to Hop- 
sore, Micheline’ s eyes were filled with tears, and by 
the contraction of her lips, one could see the effort 
she made to restrain her tears. 

“Does it grieve you to have him go?” asked Ger- 
maine. 

“Ah,” was the reply, “had he only had time, he 
would have spoken!” 


XV 


October arrived and vacation was over; Micheline 
was obliged to fulfill the promise made to her god- 
mother to begin work under Germaine^ s direction. 

Trouville was deserted; the houses were closed; 
on the sidewalks were the boxes in which the Parisian 
merchants packed what they had not sold. The sands 
so gay, so lively in August, were desolate in appear- 
ance. Where could croquet be played? With whom? 

For sometime the study had been in order; the 
books were all bought; the maps were in place; one 
had only to seat oneself at the large table which the 
Princess had had covered with cloth that the wood 
might not be so hard for the fingers, as she had had 
the chair covered with leather which Micheline was to 
use, notwithstanding Germaine’s desire that it be of 
cane. 

“Only think, she will have to remain there for 
hours. “ 

“It is not my intention to keep her at that table all 
day; she must have recreation.” 

“She must work too.” 

“Undoubted]}^ nevertheless there will be time in 
which to play.” 

That was not the first time that the Princess had 
shown inconsistency, fearing at the same time that 

180 


MICHELINE 


181 


Micheline would work and that she would not work; 
saying to the child: “You shall not be overworked,” 
and saying at the same time to her governess: “I do 
not wish her to lose time.” 

The first Monday in October at seven o’clock in the 
morning, Germaine, already dressed entered Michel- 
ine’ s room in order to awaken her, and to impress 
her in the beginning with the desirability of regular 
habits which should continue until the day when her 
education terminated. 

She found her lying in bed, wide awake. 

“I came to awaken you, my child.” 

“Why to awaken me?” 

“That we might set to work.” 

“To-day? ” 

“Was it not the first Monday in October on which 
we were to begin?” 

“Certainly; but for the very reason that it is the 
day on which we commence, it is not the day for 
study. We commence to study on Tuesday not Mon- 
day. [ said that I would work when everyone else 
did; that was agreed upon with godmother. No one 
can go back on their word.” 

On Tuesday at seven o’clock, Germaine entered 
Micheline’ s chamber as she had the day before. 

“I am pleased to see that I have not to awaken you.” 

“Do you think I have slept!” said Micheline with 
a sigh. 

Germaine paid no heed to that complaint. 

“It will be easy for you to rise; you have an hour 
for your toilet; prepare yourself that you may be 


182 


MICHELINE 


ready to take your place at your desk when the clock 
strikes eight.” 

“What! Am I to sit at a desk? One does not com- 
mence the year in that way! I have been posting 
myself. ” 

“How do they commence?” 

“By mass. When we have been to mass, I will sit 
at your table — since it must be! ” 

Germaine dared not reply that such haggling was 
not becoming in a young girl who wished to study, 
certain in advance that Micheline would reply that 
she did not want to study. 

“Very well,” said she, “we will go to mass; that is 
an excellent idea.” 

Never had Micheline found mass so short, and she 
was surprised as well as vexed that the priest celebra- 
ted it so quickly. 

They must return and seat themselves at that ter- 
rible table! 

“Mme. Germaine!” said Micheline with a startled 
air. 

“What is it, my child?” 

“Will you warn me before we begin?” 

“How warn you?” 

“When I' have a tooth extracted, I say to the den- 
tist to warn me when he is about to hurt me, then 
plant my two elbows firmly on the chair and it hurts 
me less. ” 

“Very well, I will warn you.” 

If Micheline had seen that dreaded Monday in Octo- 
ber appear with fear and trembling, the Princess, on 


MICHELINE 


183 


the contrary, awaited it with impatience; for, for 
some time she regretted having accorded Germaine 
permission not to make Micheline begin to work the 
day after her arrival. The studies imposed upon her 
would have made the child feel that she was a gov- 
erness, while the walks, the conversations and the 
games, had given her false ideas on the subject. 

“You know that I like Mme. Germaine very much, “ 
said Micheline. “At first she annoyed me by always 
finding fault, but she is a nice woman! Then too she 
is so grieved at having lost her child; it was a little 
girl. She says that to speak of her causes her to shed 
tears which relieve her, and she wishes to speak of 
her often.” 

It was not to love Micheline that the Princess had 
engaged a governess, it was to train and instruct her. 
To love her was her business, she alone would attend 
to that; she needed no assistance. She wanted her 
to herself until the day upon which she should give 
her to a husband. Since she had loved Micheline with 
such maternal devotion, she had said to herself more 
than once that that day of marriage would be cruel, 
yet she did not allow herself to think of delaying it 
one month; but to share her child with a woman, 
with a governess, that she would never submit to. 
And yet that was what seemed about to take place. 

“You know that I love Mme. Germaine.” 

How far would that love go with a child like Mich- 
eline, who required to be embraced and caressed. 
How far would it go with a woman like that Mme. 
Germaine, who instead of adhering to her position of 


184 


MICHELINE 


governess, seemed to want to play the mother? 

That was just what the Princess did not want. 
Micheline could not, should not have but one mother, 
the mother who had raised, loved and adopted her. 

Why did that stranger interfere in the hope of 
obtaining consolation for the loss of her child by 
means of Micheline’s affection? Could anyone con- 
ceive such audacity? Study would arrange things as 
they should be; instead of promenades, stories related, 
and games, she would have to remain seated in a 
chair, to listen without distraction, to apply herself, 
to learn lessons, to recite perfectly, and Micheline 
would see that a governess was a governess, not a 
mother. 

When the lessons were deferred on the first Monday 
in October, she was vexed. 

“If you suffer yourself to be ruled by Micheline,” 
said she sharply, she who was the gentlest woman in 
the world, “you will do nothing with her.” 

“I did not wish to begin with severity.” 

“Well, you were wrong; that was just the time to 
assert your authority.” 

.Germaine bowed without replying. Then the Prin- 
,eess was troubled. On the one hand, she wished the 
governess to gain a hold over her charge by means of 
that severity; but, on the other she did not wish 
Micheline to suffer from being led by too harsh a hand. 

“When I say ‘severit}^’ you must understand what 
I mean. I want Micheline to fear and respect you so 
that she will obey you; but I do not wish you to ren- 
der her unhappy.” 


MICHELINE 


185 


“You may be certain that I shall try to make her 
happy. ’’ 

“That is not necessary; neither unhappy nor happy, 
you understand. You must be to her what a govern- 
ess should be to her pupil. You know as well as I 
do, that a governess is neither a friend, a companion, 
nor a mother.” 

Those words enlightened Germaine. Very often she 
had wondered at the Princess’ contradictory orders: 

“Scold her, but not too much; be firm, and at the 
same time be gentle,” — and she had pondered upon 
what the Princess meant by such inconsistency. But 
the words, “nor a mother,” had explained to her what 
at that time she had vainly tried to comprehend. And 
as she could not rebel against that jealousy, as she 
could not reply: “I am that mother,” she vowed to be 
more prudent, more reserved. The Princess would 
not always be near them. Alone with Micheline, she 
would do as she pleased. 

But she was mistaken in thinking the Princess would 
not always be near them. 

During the season, the Princess obliged to receive 
and return calls, had left her alone most of the time 
with Micheline; but as Trouville grew empty and the 
houses were closed, things changed. The Princess 
went out very little, and at almost any moment she 
entered the school-room. 

“Do not let me disturb you,” said she, “continue the 
lesson as if I were not here.” 

She seated herself in an arm-chair facing Micheline 
in order to be able to see her, and began to work upon 


186 


MICHELINE 


a piece of embroidery which she took from a bag 
hanging on her arm. 

Then Germaine could not do with her child as she 
wished to. No more tender glances, affectionate words; 
she must be the governess, nothing but the governess. 

“Come, mademoiselle, study, apply yourself.” 

When the lesson was imperfect, she became severe. 

“It is your fault that I am being scolded, god- 
mother, when you are not here, things go better.” 

“Why do they?” 

“Because you divert me. You have missed a stitch 
in the poppy. I saw you.” 

“Can you not impress upon your pupil that she 
must apply herself?” said the Princess with dignity. 

“I will do what I can.” 

As for the drives, it was the same with them as it 
was with the lessons: no more tete-a-tetes; the Prin- 
cess accompanied them on ajil their outings, and she 
seated herself beside Micheline, the governess having 
to sit backward. No more affectionate talks between 
Germaine and Micheline, the Princess led the conver- 
sation and Micheline replied. Germaine sat in her 
corner silently, reserved, speaking only when a remark 
was addressed to her. 

Fortunately those drives were not sufficient for the 
child’s health; she required physical exercise as well, 
and as the Princess disliked walking, Germaine found 
opportunities for tete-a-tetes during which her long- 
suppressed affection overflowed. 

After early breakfast, no matter what the weather, 
they set out. If it rained they put on stout shoes. 


MICHELINE 


187 


rubber coats with hoods which supplied the place of 
umbrellas, and started off. 

Micheline delighted in walking against the wind, 
with lowered head. When it was very stormy, Ger- 
maine drew nearer to her side, slipped her arm about 
her waist, and they walked along without any restraint, 
or reserve — no longer governess and pupil, but mother 
and child ! 


XVI 


Study had not set matters right, and since lessons 
had been begun, Micheline did not seem to love her 
governess any less than when she had only walked 
with her and amused her. The most extraordinary 
part of that affection of the pupil for her governess, 
was that that which had once inspired her with such 
horror, no longer seemed to frighten her. 

Without any resistance or discussion she now took 
her seat at her table without repeating the farce of 
the mass. One could not say that she was the model 
which professors speak of in their speeches at prize- 
distributions, but if she did not distinguish herself 
particularly, she accepted that which was imposed 
upon her. There was even one study in which she 
did more than her governess required of her: that 
study was geography. One day Germaine found her 
standing on her chair, looking closely at a large map 
of Europe hanging upon the wall. 

“What are you looking for?” 

“For something!’* 

“For what?” 

“I am studying geography.” 

“You do not need a map in order to prepare the les- 
son I have given you.” 

“I know it; this is my lesson: An isthmus is a nar- 
188 


MICHELINE 


189 


row strip of land, separating two bodies of water and 
uniting two countries." 

"Are you looking for an isthmus?" 

"No." 

As she did not seem disposed to tell what she was 
looking for, Germaine did not insist, knowing by 
experience that it would not be long before Micheline 
would tell her without any questioning. 

After turning again to her map, Micheline asked: 

"Iceland is in Europe, is it not?" 

Germaine did not need to ask any questions to 
divine what prompted her to seek for Iceland; it was 
on an expedition to the coast of Iceland that Jacques 
had embarked; but she did not allow the girl to see 
that she understood her. 

"Yes, it is in Europe," she replied. 

"Ireland and Iceland are not the same. I can find 
Ireland, but not Iceland!" 

"Are you interested in Iceland?" 

"Jacques has gone to Iceland, and I wanted to see 
where he was. Iceland is a very cold country, 
Jacques says." 

"Very cold." 

"Shall we soon come to Iceland? 

"When we take Europe." 

"Then let us take it at once!" 

That haste to reach Iceland was the cause of the 
geography of Europe being so rapidly learned. 

Germaine could never give her a lesson long enough ; 
and when they took up Iceland, she could not go suf- 
ficiently into details. 


190 


MICHELINE 


A letter from Jacques which arrived in the midst 
of that lesson, spurred Micheline on still more. The 
letter was, of course, addressed to the Princess, but 
was to be read by Micheline: 

“Tell Micheline, my dear aunt, that I have not for- 
gotten my promise to send her some curious animals 
from the countries I shall visit. 

“Five days ago I sent off on board the /eune-Adele, 
two young seals, husband and wife, who, I think, will 
cut quite a figure in the little tank in the pavilion. 
I hope she will think them pretty. When they are 
used to her, she can pull their whiskers which are 
long and strong! They are easy to tame. She can 
teach them all sorts of things, for they become accus- 
tomed to those who care for them. Mme. Germaine 
can find information on this subject in Cnviex^s Animal 
Kingdom; but the best thing would be to visit the 
zoological gardens at Havre or Paris, which will tell 
you more than books can. I beg your pardon, dear 
aunt, for causing you annoyance with the pretty beasts, 
but I think they will give Micheline pleasure. The 
difficulty lay. in sending them; but as I had an oppor- 
tunity of doing a favor for the captain of the Jeune^ 
Adele which he did not know how to repay, he gladly 
undertook to transport them to Fecamp, assuring me 
that they would reach their destination alive. 

“They should be at Fecamp between the 15th and 
20th of October. I forgot to tell you (for Micheline) 
that the seal was the ancients’ mermaid. Tell her to 
ask Mme. Germaine to let her read Andersen’s "Little 
Mermaid;^ that too will give her pleasure." 


MICHELINE 


191 


“How delighted I am!” cried Micheline. “How 
kind Jacques is!” 

“Yes, he is a nice boy!” said the Princess, who was 
always delighted when Micheline was. 

“Will you let me?” asked Micheline, embracing 
her godmother. 

“Let you what?” 

“Go with Mme. Germaine to Fecamp to meet the 
seals." 

“You are not having a vacation, you must study,” 
replied the Princess sharply, for that proposition to 
go to Fecamp with Germaine had exasperated her. 

“We can study on the way, can we not, Mme. Ger- 
maine? ” 

When Micheline asked two unreasonable things of 
her godmother, she invariably obtained the realization 
of one of them: “One cannot refuse the poor little 
creature everything!” 

This was what happened on this especial occasion. 

“I will go to Fecamp with you,” said she. 

There was no mistaking the reason which determined 
the Princess to undertake that short journey; she did 
not wish Germaine to accompany Micheline; and as 
she dreaded traveling and journeys, no matter how 
short they might be, that sentiment of jealousy must 
have been very strong within her to make her go to 
Fecamp. 

That was another admonition to Germaine. On 
questioning herself, it did not seem to her that she 
had been imprudent, that she had forgotten the role of 
governess she had traced out for herself. Since her 


192 


MICHELINB 


attempt to bring things about so that she might eat 
alone with Micheline, she saw nothing with which to 
reproach herself; not even too tender a glance, too 
soft an inflexion of her voice; if, during their walks, 
she had thrown her arm about Micheline and had drawn 
her toward her, it had never been without assuring 
herself beforehand that no one could see her from the 
windows of the castle. 

What more could she do? 

Yet it became daily more evident that the Princess 
grew more jealous, and that some day sooner or later, 
there would be an outburst. What should she do? 
She could not conduct herself so that Micheline 
would hate her; had she wished to do so, had she tried 
to do so, she would not have succeeded. 

The trip to Fecamp decided upon, Micheline would 
have liked to set out at once to await the arrival of 
the Jeune Adele; but the Princess had the courage to 
resist that caprice; they would send a telegram to the 
Turretot Brothers, the owners of the ship, and when 
they announced its entrance into port, there would be 
time enough to go to Fecamp. 

On the i8th this dispatch was received: “The Jeune 
Adele just arrived; the two seals doing well. ” 

The Princess could not retract her word, for she had 
so often said that as soon as the telegram arrived they 
would depart. 

In the meantime the west wind blew a hurricane, 
black clouds passed over, the windows rattled, the 
branches of the trees swayed to and fro. “The sea 
will be rough,” said Micheline, who had noticed the 


MICHELINE 


193 


anxious glance her godmother had cast upon the sway* 
ing trees as she read the dispatch. 

“You should let me go with Mme. Germaine, who 
does not fear sea-sickness. ’ 

“Suppose we do not go until to-morrow,” said the 
Princess, “the wind may cease during the night?” 

Micheline did not reply, but her eyes looked so sor- 
rowful, her face expressed so much disappointment 
that the Princess dared not insist upon delay. 

She had promised, she must keep her word unless 
she wished to expose herself to exasperating compar- 
isons: the governess was ready to undertake the voy- 
age, she should be ready too. 

“We will take the steamer at two o’clock,” said she, 
“that is, of course, if it goes.” 

That was her last hope. The steamer might not 
go. As she had watched the tree-tops to see if they 
did not indicate a calm, she now studied them to see 
if their inclinations did not announce an approaching 
tempest ; she went up to the barometer and consulted 
it; at one time she had wanted it to rise, now she 
hoped it would fall; it was at 745, if it were to drop 
to 740 or 735, the steamer would not start; she would 
be saved. 

At one o’clock Micheline v/as ready; she must get 
ready too; the weather had not changed. 

The Princess did not venture heedlessly upon the 
steps she was about to take; she had on the contrary, 
taken precaution: Regina was laden with shawls and 
wraps, and in a bag she carried a)l the cordials which 
are known to be preventives against sea-sickness. 


13 


194 


MICHEUNE 


She knew what was awaiting her, still she braved it. 
When they reached the quay, a squall was springing 
up, and they saw no one either on the steamer or any- 
where around. Was it going to start? Smoke issued 
from its smoke-stack. 

“Is it going?” asked Micheline. 

“I do not know. Let Regina ask.” 

In ten minutes Regina, drenched through, came 
back to the carriage in which they had remained, to 
tell them that the captain, who was awaiting a lull, 
expected to start soon. 

Indeed the chimney began to emit columns of black 
smoke soon after, and the cabin-boy rang the bell. 
The squall abated somewhat, but no one came to 
embark. 

“No one is going,” said the Princess. 

“It seems that no one is going to Havre to-day but 
us,” replied Micheline. 

They left the carriage and went on board the vessel 
which as it floated off, commenced to dance. 

“The weather is clearing,” said Micheline to re- 
assure her godmother. 

Perhaps it was clearing, but at any rate the wind 
did not abate. They were forced to descend to the 
cabin for the rain would not permit them to remain 
on deck as the Princess wished to do. Very soon 
they could tell by the motion that they had left the 
river for the sea. 

“The wind is at our backs,” said Micheline, who 
knew something of navigation; “we shall not be long 
on the way, you will not be ill.” 


MICHELINE 


195 


But the ship had not left port ten minutes when, 
in spite of the various cordials which Regina pro- 
duced, the Princess grew sea-sick. 

Then Micheline, who with the firm faith of children 
had believed that her godmother would not be ill, was 
seized with remorse. ' 

“Oh! how sorry I am!” said she; “but why would 
you not let me go with Mme. Germaine?” 

"Oh, the naughty child!” sighed the Princess, who 
had not expected that recompense. 

“Why am I naughty?” Micheline looked at her 
without comprehending her words. 


XVII 


It was a matter of considerable moment to install 
those two animals in the tank at the paviliom and to 
prepare it for their reception according to the advice 
given by the proprietor of the aquarium at Havre. 
Micheline’ s studies too had suffered. Momentarily 
new pretexts were offered, many of them plausible, 
for visiting the pavilion. When Germaine attempted 
to oppose her, Micheline appealed to the Princess, 
who yielded to her more readily when the child asked 
her to accompany her on her visit to the seals, of which 
she could never see enough. 

She had christened them: the male, “M. Joseph,” 
the female, “The Little Mermaid;” and she tried to 
accustom them to their names. 

When for some time she had called “Joseph, Joseph," 
and she saw one of them approach her, rising half 
out of the water with its lustrous body, fixing its 
large black eyes upon her timidly, she would cry joy- 
fully: “Godmother, it is going to speak.” But as it 
uttered no intelligible sounds, she tried to teach it to 
say “Papa!” 

How could they think of returning to Mme. Ger- 
maine? Happy to have Micheline all to herself, the 
Princess did not make the proposition, and time glided 
by. 


196 


MICHELWE 


197 


"What a capital idea of Jacques! " said Micheline. 
They talked of Jacques, of the services he had rendered 
the captain of the /eune-Abele, of which they were 
justly proud. If Jacques had never mentioned them, 
the captain had. He had told of "that important favor" 
as Jacques had called it, in explanation of his desire 
to undertake the transportation of the two seals to 
Fecamp. One day he had fallen into the sea; as he 
was somewhat stunned, he was on the point of drown- 
ing when Jacques plunged into the water at the risk 
of drowning himself, and saved -him. What a brave 
fellow! 

During that time Germaine awaited her pupiPs re- 
turn to the study, for she never went to the pavilion 
with her, notwithstanding the pleasure she would 
have taken in witnessing Micheline’ s delight. 

The lesson relative to the trip to Fecamp had been 
sufficient. As the Princess had undertaken that jour- 
ney with all its fatigue and annoyances, her jealousy 
must indeed have been thoroughly aroused, and that 
was not the time to excite it afresh. She tried several 
times to insinuate that the seals did not merit so live- 
ly an interest, but in the face of Micheline’s surprise 
or vexation, she had not the strength to oppose her. 

"I was with godmother," the child would say. 

Germaine could not scold the godmother. At times 
it is true,she determined to have an explanation on the 
subject with the Princess, but she dared not risk it. 
She reassured herself by saying that they would soon 
leave Hopsore for Paris, and that then matters would 
be different; in Paris there would be no animals to care 


198 


MICHELINE 


for; there would be no more occasion to lose time; the 
Princess would have other things to do than to busy 
herself with Micheline from morning until night. 
Early in November they were to return to Paris; there 
were only a few days left. But their departure was 
postponed from five to ten, then to twelve, then to 
fourteen days, and Germaine wondered if they were 
never going. 

At length they left Hopsore, to Micheline’s great 
sorrow. Germaine thought that at Paris as at Hop- 
sore her room would communicate with Micheline’ s. 

Without arousing any suspicion, she had in a round- 
about way found out that such an arrangement would 
be practicable; and was it not natural that it should 
be so? She should be near her pupil. 

But her hopes were to be dashed to the ground; 
although a room on the first floor, beside Micheline’ s, 
was vacant, she was lodged on the second floor, the 
room on the first floor having been converted into a 
school-room. 

Notwithstanding the reserve she had imposed upon 
herself, she thought she might venture a remark on 
that subject. The Princess did not seem to understand 
her first words. 

“Is not your room comfortable?” she asked. 

“It is not on m}^ account that I made the observa- 
tion; the room you intend me to have is more than 
comfortable; it is for Micheline. Would it not be ad- 
visable for me to be near her?” 

“I am there.” 

“It seems to me that my room might be converted 


MICHELINE 


199 


into a study, and that I could have the room com- 
municating with Micheline’s. I do not need to be so 
comfortably lodged.” 

For some time the Princess did not reply; her eyes 
were cast down; she was evidently pondering as to 
what she should say; she seemed perplexed. * 

“We must,” said she, suddenly raising her head and 
looking Germaine in the face, “have an explanation; 
yes, we must; the moment has come.” 

Notwithstanding that statement, she did not make 
it at once, and a pause ensued which was not at all 
reassuring to Germaine. 

"Two months ago,” said she at length, “you asked 
me to allow Micheline to take her meals alone with 
you; now you ask me to let you sleep with her. Two 
months ago, I told you that what you asked was im- 
possible; to-day I repeat it, but I shall give you my 
reasons for so doing, for the situation is such that it 
cannot last much longer. Mme. Germaine, you wish 
to take my child^s love from me.” 

Germaine raised her hand with an instinctive gest- 
ure, but she had the power to restrain the words 
which rose to her lips. 

“You wish,” continued the Princess, “to have her 
replace the child you have lost, to live near her, to 
see her, to listen to her prattle, and it can easily be 
seen that you wish her to love you as she loves me, 
her mother. To be frank with you, you are not here 
for that; you are my child’s governess, not her 
mother. I cannot permit you to combine the roles; you 
must remain her governess. I will be the mother. 


200 


MICHELINE 


What would become of Micheline’s education were 
I to permit you to lapse into such an affection? I 
command you to control your feelings and to realize 
that it is impossible for Micheline, for me and for 
you. ” 

Germaine was startled at the turn the Princess had 
given the conversation, and at the conclusion at 
which it was manifest she had arrived; she tried to 
defend herself. 

“You desired,” said she, “the instructress should 
be in sympathy with her pupiJ, and vue versa,'' 

”I still desire that. But between that sympathy 
and the sentiment to which you have abandoned 
yourself, there is an abyss, which cannot be 
cleared. I told you I should be candid; I must 
be. Very well, I do not want anyone to love my 
child with the love of a mother, and 1 do not wish to 
find in her heart filial affection for anyone but me. 
You see, I speak plainly. Call it jealousy if you will; 
it matters not. So it is and so it shall be; govern- 
ess, nothing but a governess. It is for that reason 
that I assigned you the chamber you have; and it is 
for that reason too that I have decided that you shall 
not go out with Micheline any more.” 

“With whom will she go out then?” exclaimed Ger- 
maine in despair. 

“With me for her drives, and with Regina for her 
walks. “ 

“But Regina is not a suitable person for her.“ 

“That is my business, and I can listen to no re- 
marks upon the subject. It seems to me that you 


MICHELINE 


201 


should be satisfied with your position. However, if 
you feel that your dignity has been derogated from, I 
will not raise any objections to pur separation, and I 
should even like you to know that I would be ready to 
give you all compensation which would be just.” 

A governess in Germaine^ s place would have re- 
signed, but she was not a governess. Another would 
have had pride, but she could not have any, for it was 
evident too that the Princess was only awaiting an 
opportunity to offer her the compensation — which 
would be just. Not only would she have to submit, 
but she would have to prevent Micheline from rebel 
ling. 

Indeed when Micheline heard that she was to go 
out with Regina, from whom she thought she had es- 
caped forever, she was vexed; but as she had obtained 
no satisfaction from her godmother, who replied that 
things must remain thus, she fell back upon Germaine. 

“Why will you not go out with me any more?” she 
asked, when they were alone at their study-table. 

“Who told you that I did not wish to go out with 
you, my child?” 

“No one; but my godmother has just told me that 
henceforth I must go out with Regina.” 

"Your godmother, my child, decided that?” 

"You did not ask her to?” 

"No!” Then suppressing her emotion which might 
have betrayed her: "Your godmother thinks it will be 
better for you to have a nurse as well as a governess; 
you will take your walk with your nurse.” 

"But I do not like the idea of having a nurse, and 


202 


MICHELINE 


above all of having Regina, who bothers me. Regina 
talks such nonsense, while you amuse me.” 

It was Regina^s “nonsense” which troubled Ger- 
maine. How could she yield her child to the maid who 
had trained her so badly, at the moment too, when 
the child was beginning to forget her detestable les- 
sons, to forget the miserable examples she had had 
before her? yet she could not resist. 

“We will talk of interesting things when we are 
together,” said she. 

“But that will not prevent Regina from boring me. 
You know that I detest Regina, while I love you very 
much, Mme. Germaine. It is not the same to walk by 
the side of a person one detests, as it is to walk by 
the side of a person one loves.” 

“You must obey your godmother.” 

Michel ine seemed to reflect. 

“Well,” said she, “since you cannot help me, I must 
help myself; I will make Regina^s life such a burden 
to her that she will ask my godmother to allow her 
.to remain at home.” 

“My child, do not do that.” 

“Why not?” 

‘Because it is wrong to cause an innocent person 
suffering.” 

“Regina deserves it. If you only knew! I could 
not do enough to punish her.” 

If Micheline carried out her threats, the Princess’ 
anger would not fall upon the child, but upon her; 
and that would be a serious matter, furnishing as it 
would; at the same time, a pretext for “compensa- 


MICHELINE 


203 


tion, ” which she wished to avoid at any price. She 
must make Micheline understand, but without telling 
her the whole story. 

"Your godmother must not suppose that it is at my 
instigation that you are annoying Regina, and that is 
what she would think were you to do so. She knows 
that it is a great trial to me to renounce those walks, 
and she might think that I was revenging myself by 
inciting you against Regina,” 

"I understand that, but what I do not understand 
is why my godmother, who sees that it grieves me and 
you too, insists that I go out only with Regina. It 
is not fair; it is unkind, and my godmother is not un- 
kind. I shall ask her the reason.” 

"Do not ask her," said Germaine; "I will tell you. 
Your godmother loves you very much and wishes to 
have all your affection. She thinks that I fall short 
in my duties as a governess by showing too much 
fondness for you." 

"But I want you to love me." 

"That is what your godmother does not want. She 
does not wish you to desire my love; she does not 
even want me to love you. It is for that reason that 
she has put an end to our walks. I must make you 
study. Nothing is permitted me beyond that." 

Micheline was silent for some time. At length she 
said: "I understand." 

"Very well then, you see, my child, that you must 
not ask your godmother any questions, that you must 
not persecute Regina, that you must never show your 
love for me, nor must you feel hurt if I do not show 


204 


MICHELINE 


you the affection which is in my heart. Whatever I 
may say, whatever I may do, or rather whatever I may 
not say or do, rest assured that I love you tenderly, 
— not as your governess but as your mother.” 

“Yes, I believe you,” murmured Micheline, touched 
by the passionate accent with which the last words 
were uttered, more than by the words themselves. 

“Rest assured,” continued Germaine impulsively, 
“that to me you are more than my pupil, that you are 
my beloved child, whom I wish to instruct as such, to 
care for with all the solicitude, all the passion a 
mother feels for her child. That is what I want you 
to know, what you may whisper to yourself very low, 
that only you and I may hear it, that those words of 
mother and child may never be heard nor divined by 
others than ourselves.” 

“Shall it be a secret?” 

“Yes, I wish it.” 

“You will see that I do not tell secrets.” 

“If the Princess obtains an inkling of our love for 
one another we shall be separated; I shall have to 
leave this house or remain in it only as a governess.” 

“Poor Mme. Germaine,” said Micheline in a caress- 
ing voice. Those words were spoken so gently that 
tears rose to Germaine’s eyes. 

“Yes, poor Germaine,” said she, as if talking to 
herself. “I would have been so happy to live with 
you always, as we have lived for three months, to 
caress you freely, to embrace you. Our walks were so 
delightful!” 

She could not suppress a deep sigh as she thought 


MICHELINB 


205 


of those walks beneath the beeches at Hopsore, when 
they walked side by side, and she pressed her child 
to her. 

“If you like,” suddenly asked Micheline, “since we 
are alone, I can embrace you.” 

Before Germaine had time to reply, Micheline 
sprang from her chair, approached her and throwing 
her arm around her neck kissed her. 

“You must not cry,” said she tenderly, wiping Ger- 
maine’s eyes with her handkerchief.” “Since I love 
you and you love me, we need not cry.” 

“Dear child! ” Drawing her closer to her, Germaine 
took her in her arms, and with maternal instinct, with- 
out realizing what she was doing, she took Micheline 
upon her knee as if she had been an infant; she laid 
her head upon her bosom, and bending over her, kissed 
her and gazed into her eyes. 

“That is nice,” said Micheline, “kiss me again.” 
As they were in that position the door opened and the 
Princess entered. 

Instantly Micheline was upon her feet, while Ger- 
maine rose too. The Princess standing motionless at 
the door which she had not forgotten to close, looked 
at them in amazement, and they stood before her like 
two culprits, not knowing what to say. 

Micheline regained her self-possession first. 

“Mme. Germaine scolded me,” said she, “and I 
asked her to pardon me.” 

“Why did Mme. Germaine scold you?” asked the 
Princess suspiciously. 

“Ah, because. ” 


200 MICHELINE 

“I insist upon knowing.” 

“If I tell you, you will scold me too.” 

“That does not matter.” 

“But it does! ” 

Micheline had gained time and she new what to re- 

-ply- 

The Princess insisted almost angrily. 

“Speak I command you.” 

“Very well; I asked Mme. Germaine why she would 
not go out with me; she replied that it was more 
proper for me to go with a nurse. I grew angry — 
that was all.” 

“And you forgave her with a kiss,” said the Princess 
addressing Germaine. “You are much too weak for 
her. I have called your attention to it before; I 
now repeat it.” 

Those words were uttered dryly, almost harshly; 
Germaine bowed her head in silence. Happily 
Micheline came to her rescue. 

“You are always having me scolded; it is too 
bad; it is always because you find fault with me 
that I am scolded. Do you think that I do not see 
you make e3^es at Mme. Germaine that she may punish 
me? She has, however, no need to do that!” 

The matter rested there, thanks to that diversion, 
but the Princess did not seem disposed to excuse the 
weakness she had surprised, and she took care that 
Micheline should not go out with Germaine. 

The morning walk was taken with Regina; the after- 
noon drive with her. 

From three to five o’clock Germaine was free, and 


MICHELINE 


,207 


during that time she took walks too. Strolling down 
the Avenue, she walked slowly along in her morning 
garb amidst the toilettes more or less striking which 
surrounded her, and followed the line of carriages 
with the attention of a rustic who wished to drink in 
what she could of fashionable Paris. 

But among those carriages there was only one for 
which she had eyes — that in which sat her child. 
When the sun began to cast a golden aureole over 
Mount- Valerien, she walked up the Avenue again and 
entered the house. She had seen, she had admired 
her; was there a prettier child among all those who 
had passed before her eyes? 


XVIII 


Thursday was Micheline^s reception day; from four 
to seven the drawing-rooms were open; at five, tea 
and refreshments were served. 

For seven years after the Prince’s death, the man- 
sion on the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne had been 
closed; in her grief the Princess cared to see no one 
but Micheline. If Micheline was sufficient for her, it 
was certain that she could not always be sufficient for 
the child, who grew weary in that deserted silent 
house to which came at intervals Witold and his 
brothers and sisters. From that time dated the Thurs- 
day receptions. Micheline presided at them, to the 
Princess’ great delight, for she was proud of her 
adopted daughter’s ease and assurance; a woman could 
not have borne herself better than that child. She 
went to the door when a new-comer was announced, 
kissed her or offered her hand according to the degree 
of their intimacy, conducted her guest to a seat, said 
a few pleasant words to the mother, and returned to 
her place without any haste, just in time to welcome 
other arrivals. 

These receptions included all sorts of people who 
came to Paris from the four corners of the earth to 
meet, form relationships and to amuse themselves. 

On the first Thursday in February Micheline, upon 
208 


MICHELINB 


209 


commencing her school duties, complained of a head- 
ache and of being chilly; she sneezed and spoke as if 
she had a cold. 

Germaine, who looked at her closely, noticed that 
her eyes were heavy. 

"We will not work to-day," said she. 

"Oh, yes, please! If I do not study, I shall fancy I 
am ill, and that will prevent having a dance this after- 
noon." 

"But you are not well." 

"It is nothing. I can study, you shall see." 

What Germaine saw was the effort made by Miche- 
line to apply herself, in which effort she was unsuc- 
cessful. Germaine forced her to lie down. 

"I shall be better soon," said Micheline. 

Indeed in the course of a few moments she returned 
to her lessons. However, Germaine was not reassured; 
it was the first time she had seen her indisposed, and 
it worried her. She was as dissatisfied with the man- 
ner in which her health was cared for, as she was 
with the direction of her education. 

Instead of being in bed every night at nine o^clock, 
Micheline often did not return home until midnight, 
sometimes until one o’clock with her godmother from 
the theater or assemblies. 

For a child of that age it was very injurious, and 
she was in despair, hut she could do nothing to 
change it. 

Micheline, tender and loving to her, always came to 
bid her adieu before setting out and to show her her 
dress; then Germaine awaited her return, counting the 

‘4 


210 


MICHELINE 


minutes when she was late, growing anxious and fret- 
ting until the .carriage rolled along the gravel walk in 
the garden where she had not even the consolation of 
assisting her to disrobe. 

Was not her illness the result of those irregular 
habits and of fatigue? 

The day slipped by and at three o’clock Micheline 
passed from her governess’ hand into those of her 
maid to be dressed. 

‘’Do not fear, I shall be all right.” 

But that was not sufficient to allay Germaine’s fears; 
though the chills had ceased, her voice was still husky 
and her face was flushed. She tried to impress upon 
her not to tire herself out, not to expose herself to 
cold, and she persuaded her to wear a high-necked 
bodice. Then she was forced to let her go, for she 
was never present at those Thursday reunions. She 
had never found the time so long as upon that partic- 
ular Thursday; she was not alone anxious to know if 
Micheline was amusing herself but if she were not 
worse; had she been near her she could have watched 
to see that she did not fatigue herself, and she could 
have prevented her from being imprudent. 

If she could have questioned the servants who 
waited in the drawing-rooms she could have found out 
how Micheline was; but none of the servants would 
answer her if she asked a question of that kind. If 
on her arrival at Hopsore she had been looked upon 
as an enemy, now that the Princess had proved her 
enmity in twenty different ways, the entire staff of 
servants treated her with disdain and scorn. 


MICHELINE 


211 


The governess! By the manner in which that word 
was uttered, she knew what sentiments they cherished 
toward her. 

She waited until half-past six, the door of her 
room ajar, listening to the confused sounds below. 
At length the piano ceased, the carriages rolled away. 
Then she descended to the first floor to meet Michel- 
ine on her way upstairs. In a few minlites Michel- 
ine appeared, mounting the stairs with difficulty. 

“Ah, Mme. Germaine, I can go no farther." 

“What ails you, my darling?” 

“My head aches, I am hot and chilly — but never 
mind, I enjoyed myself.” 

“And now you are ill!” 

“Do not scold me; rather help me; try to keep god- 
mother from being worried if I do not come down to 
dinner. I had rather lie down.” 

The Princess was not vexed with Micheline, but she 
was vexed with Germaine for not having told her. 

“But the child said she was well.” 

“You should have seen that she was not.” 

“If I could have watched her during the ball, I 
should have seen it.” 

The Princess, already wounded that Micheline 
should have confided in Germaine and not in her, was 
exasperated by that opposition, the first she had met 
with. She was still angrier upon the arrival of the 
doctor who said the child had a high fever, and who 
advised them to watch her during the night. 

“I will stay up^with her,” said Germaine quickly. 

“Do not be frightened if she is somewhat deliri- 


212 


MICHELINE 


ous,” said the doctor, “but be careful that she does 
not throw aside the covers, for if, as is probable, she 
is going to have an eruptive fever, she must not take 
cold. ’’ 

Instead of addressing himself to the Princess, he 
gave his instructions to Germaine — the nurse. Out 
of respect for appearances, the Princess did not take 
Germaine to task before tiie doctor, but when she re- 
entered Micheline^s room, after having seen him off, 
she spoke very sharply to her. 

“You can retire,” said she to Germaine who was 
about to prepare everything for the night; “I will 
watch my child.” 

“But, madame!” 

“It is my place to be near her, not yours. Thank 
you for your offer.” 

At the first words Micheline opened her eyes and 
looked at her godmother; the thanks which she thought 
sincere reassured her. 

“I shall be glad to have you watch me,” said she, 
“but not all night.” 

“If I feel sleep overcoming me I will send for 
Regina. ” 

“Oh no, I do not want Regina. I am ill, and they 
do not cross sick people.” 

“Very well, I shall not sleep.” 

“You will sleep! You know you cannot keep awake 
after one o’clock; at midnight Mme. Germaine will 
take your place will you not, madame?” 

Germaine glanced at the Princess before replying. 


MICHELINE 


213 


“Godmother cannot say no, if you say yes,” contin- 
ued Miclieline. “Say 3’es! ” 

Godmother was entrapped! It was indeed impos- 
sible for her to say no ; however, she would not yield 
altogether. 

“Let Mine. Germaine come at two o’clock,” said 
she. 

“Let her come at one,” said Mich§line. “Sleep 
well until then, Mme. Germaine. Good night, god- 
mother!’ 

A little before one, Germaine went downstairs; the 
child was sleeping, but her slumber was uneasy; she 
tossed feverishly upon her pillow, muttering incoher- 
ent words from time to time. 

“Let me know if there is any change,” said the 
Princess authoritatively. “Do not wait, but warn me 
at once.” 

Germaine seated herself quietly beside the bed, and, 
as she could see the child only indistinctly by the 
dim light, she listened to judge of her condition by 
her respiration. 

The night passed without any difficulties arising; 
if Micheline’s sleep was restless, it was at least not 
broken. Once only she awoke, and she saw Germaine 
bending over her. 

“Ah, you are there, Mme. Germaine?” 

“Do you want anything, my child?” 

“No, thank you; you are there, so much the better! 
And where is godmother?” 

“She is asleep. Shall I fetch her?” 

“No, do not awaken her?” 


214 


MICHELINE 


“How do you feel?" 

“I hardly know, I am so drowsy.* 

When the doctor came the next morning, he found 
both the Princess and Germaine at Micheline’s bed- 
side, and as he had given his orders the preceding 
day to Germaine, he interrogated her. The Princess 
took the very words from Germaine’s mouth. How 
was it that the stupid doctor did not know that he 
should address her? Still he persisted in explaining 
to Germaine what should be done — he thought the 
child would have the measles, and precautions must 
be taken to bring out the eruption. Whether from 
caprice or whether her eyes troubled her, Micheline 
turned her face toward the wall and would not answer 
her godmother’s questions. 

“She was tired, the light annoyed her, she wanted 
to sleep.” From time to time she called Germaine to 
tell her what she wanted; each summons was a blow 
to the Princess. 

What had that miserable governess done that the 
child should think only of her? 

It was so all day, and in the evening when the Prin- 
cess broke a glass, Micheline began to cry: “Oh, I 
beg of you, godmother, let Mme. Germaine nurse 
me! “ 

The Princess fled to her room to hide her chagrin, 
blaming Germaine, not Micheline. 

The illness proved to be the measles; they were 
light; in a week the eruption had disappeared, but as 
the catarrh continued, the doctor advised the Prin- 
cess to spend some time in the South* 


MICHELINE 


215 


Germaine hoped to be of the party, but the Prin- 
cess said that as the child could not study, she might 
remain in Paris. She had not even the consolation of 
accompanying Micheline to the station; she bade her 
farewell in the hall, merely shaking hands. 


XIX 


Micheline had promised Germaine to write to her, 
but time flew by and no letter arrived. They did not 
even know at home where the Princess was. "She 
had gone South," that was all, to Hyeres, to Cannes, 
to Mentone, or somewhere. 

Germaine did not know what to think; was the child 
ill again? Had she forgotten to write? Did the 
Princess withhold her letters? That was all possible. 
However, it was more probable that the Princess 
would not allow Micheline to write, out of jealousy, 
in order to avenge herself and also to weaken that 
affection which during Micheline’s illness had grown 
stronger. 

Germaine felt sure of Micheline’s heart; absence 
would not make her forget her. But her anxiety was 
none the less intense in spite of that confidence. The 
child might be ill, a relapse was possible, and the 
Princess’ anger was so great, that had a relapse set 
in, Germaine felt assured she would not summon her 
to nurse Micheline. 

She therefore had to wait in uncertainty. The Prin- 
cess had Regina and Saint-Denis with her; they wrote 
occasionally to their fellow-servants, and it was by 
chance, by a word overheard as she passed them by, 
that Germaine learned that the Princess was at Grasse. 


MICHELINE 


217 


She determined to do that which she had never 
dared to venture upon. She would question the maid 
who waited upon her. 

“Have you received any news to-day?” 

“Yes, from M. Saint-Denis and Mile. Regina.” 

“Are they well?” 

“Very well. Mile. Regina and M. Saint-Denis are 
very well, but the latter is very much bored; he says 
that Grasse is so quiet, and that the Princess has 
decided to remain there instead of going to Nice, 
where it is much gayer.” 

Germaine listened to that chatter, hoping it would 
lead up to the subject of Micheline, but seeing that 
the maid harped upon the subject of ''Mile, Regina' 
and "Saint-Denis," she tried a direct question. 

“And Micheline?” 

“They did not mention her.” 

In fact why should they? What did they care for 
Micheline? She was wrong to interrogate the girl. 

She began to study the guides and books which 
contained any information relative to Grasse; she 
read that they took invalids there for whom the sea- 
air was too bracing, then she understood the Prin- 
cess’ preference for Grasse. 

She waited on, telling herself that it would be 
impossible for that silence to continue much longer. 
Finally one morning she received a letter addressed 
in the Princess’ handwriting; hastily, eagerly she 
opened it; it ran thus: 

“Madame: — 

“In consequence of other arrangements which I have 


218 


MICHELINE 


made with regard to my daughter's education, I re- 
gret to inform you that your services will no longer be 
required. But as it would not be just that the change 
in our plans should be detrimental to your interests, 
you will find inclosed a cheque which I hope will 
prove sufficient indemnity. 

“Since you have superintended my daughter’s edu- 
cation I have been perfectly satisfied with you in 
every respect; there is, therefore, in this forced sep- 
aration nothing which could be interpreted against 
you. I can recommend you highly. 

“With thanks and the assurance of my lasting es- 
teem, Princess Sobolewski. “ 

Germaine needed not to finish that letter; at the 
first words: “In consequence of other arrangements," 
she knew all. 

She was to be sent away, to be separated from 
Micheline, and it was to render that separation more 
easy that the Princess went to Grasse. Although 
for some time she had feared that one day or other 
the Princess in her mad jealousy would rid herself 
of her, she had not expected it in that way; she 
thought it would require certain circumstances to 
bring it about, and had resolved to be prepared for 
it, to even stand up for her rights. If she had sub- 
mitted to indignities it had been for her daughter’s 
sake, in order to be near her. 

She was to be torn from her! At that she rebelled, 
determined to do anything to retain her. She would 
tell the truth, she would confess it; she, not her 
child, would have to atone for her error. More than 


MICHELINE 


219 


one natural child loved its mother. Micheline would 
be no different from the restj she was sure of her. 
The fears which had possessed her on her return to 
France, no longer existed; she had won her child’s 
heart; she would not lose it. 

She must set out for Grasse at once, and since they 
intended snatching her daughter from her — reclaim 
her! She would not present herself at a tribunal 
before which her maternity would not be admitted, 
she would simply say to the Princess: “I am Mich- 
eline’ s mother! Give me back my child!” Of course 
Micheline would lose the fortune which the Princess 
intended to assure her; but was it legal for her to 
inherit that fortune? 

It was a question which had often troubled her and 
weighed upon her mind. Could the husband’s child 
become the wife’s heiress? 

The thought of losing a fortune could not hold 
Germaine back, under the circumstances; it would 
have been one fault more added to those in the midst 
of which she struggled; she would not sell her child; 
she would not deliver her up to the Princess that she 
might do with her as she chose, train her to suit her- 
self or rather not train her at all, and to marry her 
some day to Witold or anyone who would flatter her 
ambition or vanity. 

When no one was concerned about her, when she 
alone had to suffer, she could sacrifice her right of 
motherhood; at least she was there to watch her 
child, to direct her, and if necessary to defend her; 


220 


MICHELINE 


but now it was not herself only who was interested, 
but Micheline as well. 

That same evening she started for Grasse. She did 
not know where the Princess was stopping; but in a 
small town like Grasse, it would not be difficult to 
find her. 

On alighting from the omnibus, she saw Regina 
seated upon a bench, sunning herself. 

“You here?” cried the maid in surprise. 

“How is Micheline?” asked Germaine unable to 
restrain that question, and feeling at the same time 
that she had no need any longer to be prudent. 

“She is not well, she has had a relapse; they 
would have done better to remain in Paris.” 

“Is she in danger?” 

“I do not think so, but she has a high fever?” 

“Where are the Princess’ apartments?” 

“Did you not receive madame’s letter?” asked Re- 
gina, with an astonished air which showed that she 
knew abo«ut the letter. 

“To what effect was it?” 

“It dismissed you.” 

“Where are the Princess’ apartments?” repeated Ger 
maine. 

Regina, who detested Germaine, and who at length 
had found the long-sought-for occasion upon which to 
gratify her hatred, would not let it escape her. She 
assumed a very sanctimonious air, and said almost 
amicably: 

‘I am giving you good advice; do not insist; be- 
lieve me, it will be useless. The Princess is jealous 


MICHSLINE 


231 


of the love the little one cherishes for you, and it is 
for that reason she has discharged you. You must, 
too, remember that by making a scene, you prove your 
love for the child, and you will vex instead of soothe 
her. Neither you nor anyone else can change her. In 
proof of that statement, I may say that Micheline 
herself cannot move her.” 

“Micheline?” 

“Yes, after she had written to you, the Princess 
told her what she had done, then Micheline fell into 
a violent rage; she screamed and cried ; she wanted 
you; a dispatch must be sent to you. When she saw 
that that had no effect, she began to implore. For the 
first time in her life, the Princess was obdurate; 
prayers, entreaties, anger were all one. So you see 
that it would be useless for 5^ou to make the attempt.” 

Notwithstanding her impatience, her anxiety, Ger- 
maine listened with delight to that stream of words; 
she had not been mistaken in feeling so sure of her 
child’s heart, 

Regina continued: “That excess of anger probably 
caused a relapse, or aggravated it at least. But never- 
theless the Princess has not yielded; she does not 
want you; at no price would she have you back. What 
I have told you, you understand is in your interest, 
that you may not expose yourself to a rebuff, which 
would not be very pleasant.” 

“The Princess must receive me; tell her I am here.” 

“There is Saint-Denis! Ask him; you will see if he 
does not tell you the same thing.” 

Regina signed to Saint-Denis to approach. 


222 


MICHELINE 


“I do not need Saint-Denis. Tell the Princess I 
am here, that is all I ask of you.” 

“The little one is asleep.” 

“Then I will wait.” 

Regina decided to go upstairs. 

“After all, I will see,” said she. 

The apartments were on the first floor; they com- 
prised a salon and two bedrooms. 

Regina opened the door of the salon cautiously; 
then walking on tiptoe she signed to the Princess 
who was seated beside the bed in which Micheline 
slept. 

The Princess hesitated a moment, but Regina hav- 
ing repeated the sign, she rose softly and entered the 
room in which the maid had paused. 

Micheline had not stirred, she seemed to be asleep. 

“What do you want?” asked the Princess in a low 
voice. 

“Mme. Germaine is downstairs; she wishes to see 
madame. ” 

Suddenly Micheline sat up in bed. 

“Mme. Germaine!” she cried, “what joy!” 


XX 


On seeing Micheline start up in bed, the Princess 
ran to her to cover her up. 

Micheline threw her arms about her neck and kissed 
her. “Thank you," said she; “thank you!” 

“Leave us,” said the Princess turning to Regina. 
“I will ring for you immediately.” 

Notwithstanding the desire she had to remain in 
order to find out what was being said, Regina was 
obliged to leave the drawing-room. 

Then Micheline asked: “Why not at once? Since 
you have sent for her, why do you not want to let 
her in? I should be so delighted." 

The first words, “Why not at once?” the Princess 
did not understand, but the others were only too clear. 

“Since you sent for her,” continued Micheline,” why 
did you not tell me? That would have cured me. 
You think I sleep and hear nothing, but I heard the 
doctor tell you that it was because I had been crossed 
that I had such a high fever; you should have pleased 
me in order to cure me. Now I shall get well.” 

“You are ill because you have lost your governess, 
what would you do if you lost me?” 

“Oh, I should die!” 

That cry was like balm to the Princess’ wounded 
heart. 


223 


224 


MICHELiNE 


“Is it true?’* she asked, passing her hand over the 
child’s forehead. 

“Is it true? Do you think that because I love Mme. 
Germaine, I do not love you? Do I not kiss you 
enough? Then bend over me, I will kiss you. “ Slipping 
her arms around the Princess’ neck, she kissed her 
tenderly. “Now let Mme. Germaine come in.” 

“But my child." 

“Since you sent for her, it was not to leave her at 
the door." 

“I did not send for her." 

“You did not send for her?” 

“No." 

“Then you do not want her to come in? My God, 
how unhappy I am!" 

Micheline burst into tears. 

“Micheline, Micheline!" 

But Micheline continued to weep. The Princess 
was in despair. Leaning over Micheline, she stroked 
her hair, murmuring tender words. 

“That annoys me," said the child in the midst of 
her tears. 

The Princess quickly drew back her hand^ and Mich- 
eline began to sob again. 

“I thought," she muttered from time to time, “I 
thought." The Princess was at a loss for words. She 
was in despair; she stood beside the bed wondering 
how she could appease Micheline. There was one 
means by which she could accomplish that end, and 
that was to admit Germaine; but could she make 
up her mind to submit? After having shown strength 


MICHELINE 


225 


of character sufficient to discharge that miserable 
woman, should she be weak enough to take her back? 

With face turned to the wall Micheline wept, ges- 
ticulated and threw off the coverlets which her god- 
mother had arranged over her shoulders. 

"Micheline, my child, you will make yourself ill! " 

"It will not be my fault! Is it my fault if I have 
pain? And I have a great deal!" 

Those last words moved the Princess to the depths 
of her heart. 

"You know what the doctor ordered," she said; 
"you must be calm." 

"He said no one should contradict me, and I have 
so much trouble. I only love one person, and they 
have taken her away from me." 

A sob choked her utterance. 

"But I am here; who could love you as I do?" 

"Mme. Germaine loves me too. I have no brothers 
no sisters; I am all alone, a foundling, without par- 
ents. When one has relatives to love one, one does 
not love one’s governess; I have no relatives, and I 
love her because she was good to me, so kind, so 
tender. Now that I am ill, she could care for me 
with you; you, in the day time, she, at night. You 
know I do not want Regina to nurse me, I would 
rather die. " 

How should she pacify her? Would not the fever 
she had brought on herself be aggravated? Up to 
that time her words had only been as the complaint 
of a child, but now she had explained her grief and 
justified it by reasons. 


15 


226 


MICHELINE 


“And if you too should become ill,” cried Micheline 
suddenly, “who would nurse me, who would nurse 
you? Mme. Germaine would be near me; you would 
no longer need to worry; you would know that she 
was caring for me as she did in Paris.” 

That was true. The Princess knew it only too well 
and she was vexed at the selfishness of her jealousy, 
but it was the misfortune of her life to have always 
been jealous of those she loved, formerly of the 
Prince, now of Micheline. If she had controlled and 
concealed it so that the Prince had not suffered by 
it, could she not do the same with regard to the child? 
Was not the surest means of losing the affection of 
those whom one desired to keep for oneself alone, 
to render that love obnoxious? 

Those thoughts and Micheline’ s tears, her com- 
plaints, her grief, her fever, all united in over-power- 
ing her. However, she could not decide to yield, 
saying to herself in order to justify that resistance in 
her own eyes, that if she permitted the governess to 
enter her house, it would be equivalent to an abdica- 
tion. What strength the woman would gain by her 
submission! How far would she go? Her encroach- 
ments in governing would count for little, but her 
monopolization of Micheline’ s affection would be a 
different matter; that was what she dreaded most. 

Micheline still kept her face turned toward the wall, 
and sobbed violently. Gradually those sobs diminished 
and the Princess hoped that she was growing calmer. 
A trifle more firmness and she would be resigned with- 
out doubt. At that moment Micheline turned her head. 


MICHELINE 


227 


“Godmother,” said she, “why do you wish to send 
Mme. Germaine away?” 

“Because she is too weak for you.” 

“It is because she loves me so mugh. Do you not 
want anyone to love me?” 

The Princess did not reply. 

“Tell me, is it true?” asked Micheline. The Prin- 
cess turned away her head. “You will not answer 
me, nor look at me. If I should die would you feel 
any remorse at having caused me so much sorrow?” 

“Be silent, you naughty child!” 

“Am I naughty? Valentine Semanville died of the 
measles. If I were not very ill, would the doctor have 
told you it was a serious case?” 

Then changing her tone from one of reproach to one 
of tenderness, she said: “Godmother, dear godmoth- 
er, I pray you do not send Mme. Germaine away.” 

Her godmother was already shaken in her resolution 
— that affectionate appeal carried its point. However 
Micheline continued: “It is my fault, but you are 
punishing me too severely. It is because you think 
that I do not love you dearly. What have I done 
to you, what have I said? Must I say all day that I 
love you?” 

“I do not need you to tell it to me, I can see it.” 

“Well, I will say it! I love you, godmother; I 
love you because you love me, because you are my 
mamma.” 

“Yes, your mother, my child.** Bending over her 
bed, she kissed Micheline passionately. “Your mother, 
your mother,” she repeated. 


228 


MICHELINE 


‘*Now, you have no fear of Mme. Germaine?” asked 
Micheline who, with childish persistency, clung to 
her idea from which nothing could distract her. 

The Princess was conquered, her strength, her firm- 
ness yielded. 

‘T will seek her,” said shco 

”Ah, godmother!” 

“But before I return with her, I have some remarks 
to make to her; do not grow impatient.” 

“You can make them afterward.” 

"No, I cannot, for I have some new proposition to 
lay before her.” 

‘‘You promise me to bring her back with you?” 

‘‘I promise.” 

‘‘What if you should get angry?” 

*‘I have given you my word; come what may, I will 
keep it, whatever it may cost me; are you satisfied?” 

‘‘Oh so happy! ” In order that her godmother 
might not have time to change her mind, Micheline 
rang. 

Regina, who was waiting on the landing, entered 
at once. 

Micheline addressed her. 

‘‘Tell Mme. Germaine to come upstairs.” 

Regina looked at the Princess for confirmation of 
that absurd order; for since the letter of dismissal 
had been written, she thought the governess would 
never be forgiven. 

‘‘Do you hear me?” exclaimed Micheline, exasper- 
ated by the woman's manner. 

“Do as Micheline bids you,” said the Princess; 


MICHELINE 


229 


“and when she gives you an order do not hesitate, I 
tell you once for all.’* 

Regina left the room and the Princess followed her, 
closing the door of Micheline's room, then that of 
her own, in order that not a word of what was to pass 
between the governess and herself should reach the 
child’s ears, for she had important matters to settle 
and on that point she was determined not to weaken; 
that should be her revenge. 

She did not wait long in the drawing-room. Ger- 
maine soon entered. 

“So, madame, “ said the Princess with her most 
stately air, “you thought you would pay no heed 
to my letter?” 

Germaine was prepared; on the way she had de- 
cided upon what she should say. The anger she had 
felt at first, had subsided, and in its place had entered 
a sentiment of justice toward the Princess who had 
no other fault than that of loving devotedly the child 
whom she had reared. 

Calmly she replied, although her heart contracted 
with emotion: “If I had only been Micheline’s gover- 
ness, I should have heeded your letter, madame, but 
in the face of the dismissal it contained, I can no 
longer maintain silence, nor can I any longer deceive 
you. Micheline is my daughter and I have come here 
to claim her.” 

“Who is her father?” exclaimed the Princess, with 
a shudder which betrayed her suspicions. 

When Germaine on her journey from Paris to Grasse 


230 


MICHELINE 


had prepared her speech, she had anticipated that 
question. 

She surely could not make such a revelation to the 
Princess, she must therefore hold herself in readiness 
to reply. Her error, Germaine did not attempt to 
extenuate; she had erred, she did not try to deny that; 
on that point her confession was full and frank. But 
on two other points such frankness was impossible; 
they were, the paternity of Micheline and her deser- 
tion. 

She must find a means of deceiving the Princess 
with regard to them. 

Unfortunately she was no adept in the art of invent- 
ing plausible stories, and what she had planned to say 
was not very effective. She had not considered 
whether the Princess would be satisfied or not. The 
Prince must not be compromised, that was all. 

'T suppose the father was not your husband?” said 
the Princess scornfully. 

“That is true.” 

“Then who is he?” 

“The secret is not mine. It is not the father who 
has come to reclaim his child, but the mother, and I 
am prepared to prove that I am Micheline^s mother. 
As for her father, I cannot expose him — I left Chili 
on that account.” 

“Ah, did it happen in Chili?” 

That question escaped the Princess as the words, 
‘And her father?” had escaped her, but while in the 
one there had been a trace of anguish, in the other 
there was a suspicion of relief. 


MICHELINE 


231 


Germaine succeeded in one thing: the Princess^ fears 
had been allayed. 

She continued: “Besides, what I could tell you of 
Micheline’s father, were I at liberty to do so, would be 
of no interest to you. As far as I am concerned, I can 
give you all the proof you require, proof that it will 
be easy for you to verify. I lived at Neuilly on reach- 
ing Paris, in December 1863, and at Bourgla-Reine 
in the house of a physician who is still living, my 
child was born the following June.” 

“What does all that concern me?” 

“I want you to know that Micheline is my child.” 

“Why? All the proofs in Christendom would not 
give you any claim upon Micheline, who, in the eyes 
of the law, is not and cannot be your child. When 
I thought of adopting Micheline, 1 consulted my law- 
yer; we examined into all the details. I have not 
forgotten that in the case of an illegitimate birth the 
parents have no claims — and that is your case pre- 
cisely since you were a married woman. It is there- 
fore needless for you to prove your maternity.” 

“My intention is not to invoke the aid of the law.” 
said Germaine. 

“I should not advise you to do so for your chances 
would be very small. Which is true love, yours or 
mine? You tell me ‘Micheline is my child, I have 
come to claim her," and I reply: ‘Micheline is my 
child, I shall keep her." You can only prove your 
maternity* by an accident, I can prove mine by ten 
years of devoted affection. Where would your child 
have been, had I not been there to receive her when 


232 


MICHELINE 


it pleased you to abandon her? Which of us two has 
been her mother? Which of us could appear before her 
with head erect and say 'This is what I have been to 
you/ If you have so many proofs of your maternity, 
why do you say so little in explanation of your deser- 
tion? ” 

“1 was just coming to that explanation which is 
very simple. Obliged to sat out for Chili at the be- 
ginning of July, I left my child with a woman in whom 
I thought I could trust, but who deceived me.” 

“When did yt)u leave for Chili?” 

“The fifth of July.” 

“And we found Micheline on the twentieth”, said the 
Princess, who seemed to accept those dates with sat- 
isfaction. 

“Just two weeks after my departure; so you see that 
I did not desert her, as you have said.” 

“Why was she left at my gate as if they wanted the 
child to be found by the Prince, by me, or by the cas- 
tle servants?” 

“Because that woman, who had heard of your love 
for children, hoped that you would care for the child 
I had intrusted to her, and that then her wrong would 
be righted.” 

“How did you learn that the child was with me?" 

“From the woman who confesssed all to me when I 
went to claim my child.” 

“Where does she live?” 

“At Argentan.” 

As Germaine divined the Princess’ object, she antic^ 


MICHELINE 


233 


ipated the question about to be asked her sure, in 
advance of Eugenie’s fidelity and prudence. 

“You can examine her if you choose; you can write 
to her. “ 

The Princess did not reply, she did not say what 
she would do. 

“Why did you not claim your child at once? Why 
did you enact the farce of governess?” 

Germaine had lied sufficiently; now that the ques- 
tions involved no one but herself, she could speak freely 
and defend her child and herself. 

“It was indeed to obtain my child from you that I 
came to Hopsore. Arriving there at too late an hour 
to appear at the castle, I stopped at P Image Saint- 
Pierre^ and that evening I accidentally overheard a 
conversation between Saint-Denis and one of his 
friends which inspired me with the idea of playing 
the role of governess. That conversation proved to 
me that you loved Micheline tenderly, that you wished 
to adopt her, and I saw that you would not give her 
up without a struggle. Then too, I learned that you 
intended employing a governess, and I thought I could 
become that governess. 

“If you could not become her mother!” 

“To have become her mother, I should have had to 
acknowledge the truth to Micheline, and I confess 
that I am even now afraid to make that avowal. On 
the other hand I should have had to enter into a suit 
with you, and I confess that I dreaded that too.” 

“You know that your rights are not valid, while 
mine are.” 


234 


MICHELINE 


"I can see that it would be cruel to come to take 
from you a child whom you had raised, whom you had 
cared for ten years, whom you have loved and who 
loves you. Those are some of the reasons which have 
made me contented, me her mother, to be only my 
child’s governess, to be contented with the thought of 
living near her, of devoting myself to her, of forming 
her heart and her mind. The part I assumed I should 
have retained without ever swerving from that path, 
without being her mother in anything but affection 
and devotion, leaving to you, madame, the joys and the 
recompense of maternity, if you had not written me 
that letter. You wish to separate me from my child; 
now no human consideration can any longer restrain 
me, neither fear of a public suit, nor gratitude for 
your care, nor the pain I might inflict upon the child 
by taking her from you, nor care for her interests. 
You no longer wish me to act as her governess, I say 
to you: T am her mother!’ You want war, I say to 
you: T am ready!’ Whatever may come, I have 
nothing to fear. My daughter will see who loved her 
and whom she should love, whether the mother who 
sacrificed all for her, or the adopted mother whose 
jealous affection actuated her to dismiss a woman who 
only asked to devote herself to her child without 
making any claims or expecting aught in return.” 

Of all the arguments upon which Germaine could 
have drawn that was the strongest, for the Princess 
lived in dread of being reproached by Micheline. 
What would the child say if the storm burst? Whom 


MlCHELim 


235 


would she blame in her childish, and later on in her 
maturer, judgment? 

For some time she gazed meditatively before her, 
seeing nothing, and as Germaine was about to speak, 
she raised her hand to impose silence. "Will you 
promise," said she at length, "to be only what you 
proposed just now, that is to say, her governess, noth- 
ing but her governess, to love her if you will, with a 
mother’s devotion without making any claims? I re- 
quire a solemn oath on the life, the happiness of your 
child." 

"I will do so." 

"Are you ready to swear that you will never invoke 
your maternity? Promise me, I will retract the letter 
I wrote, and you can resume your duties as Micheline’s 
governess. " 

Germaine extended her hand. 

"I swear it," said she. 

"On Micheline’s life?" 

"On her life, her happiness, I swear it." 

"Very well, follow me." 

Passing through the first room, the Princess opened 
the door of her bed-chamber, then that of Micheline’s. 

The sound of footsteps warned Micheline that her 
godmother was no^ alone, and she sat up in bed 
quickly. 

"Oh, Mme. Germaine, how happy I am!" 

Germaine had the strength of will not to yield to 
the joy which impelled her to rush into her daughter’s 
arms, and even at that moment she appeared in the 
role of governess. 


236 


MICHELINE 


“Your godmother wishes me to resume my position; 
to help nurse you first, and to assist you with your 
studies when you are well.” 

“Come, let me kiss you, godmother!” 


END OF PART SECOND. 







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PART THIRD 



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I 


At sixteen Micheline no longer resembled the child 
whom Germaine had found on arriving at Hopsore ; 
while the child had been pert and precocious in her 
remarks on the subject of love, the young girl was 
reserved. 

Did she love Witold? Or, at least, was she dis- 
posed to love him? 

The Princess and Germaine asked themselves that 
question without obtaining a satisfactory reply. The 
godmother could comprehend Micheline less than her 
instructress, but if occasionally Germaine essayed to 
draw from her some decisive words, she only replied 
by a jest or an enigmatical smile. 

She who as a child had chattered so freely of her 
“lovers,” now seemed to think of nothing but dress. 
It seemed as if her very life depended upon a taste- 
fully-made gown, and as her credit was unlimited, she 
could give her fancies free flight. At first she was 
contented to dress better than anyone else; then she 
wanted to be dressed differently from an)^one else. 
To strengthen the originality of her taste, she drew 
from Nature, she called study to her aid. She paid 
visits to the Louvre and made sketches from the por- 
traits of the various schools, Italian as well as Dutch 
and Flemish. Indeed that passion for dress was not 

239 


240 


MICHELINE 


purely platonic, nor was it inspired by the simple 
desire of being well-dressed, but by the fact that a 
striking costume would call forth pleasant compli- 
ments or mute admiration. For notwithstanding her 
reserve, it was evident that the desire to please had 
not disappeared, and that at seventeen she did not wish 
“to scare off lovers,” as she had once said. 

Indeed she did everything in her power to attract 
them; and as she had her father’s soft, blue eyes, his 
tall, elegant form, her mother’s pink-and-white com- 
plexion, as she had a roguishly tender smile in which 
lurked that peculiar charm which children born of 
parents of different rank so often have, she had al- 
ways a large train of admirers at Paris as well as at 
Trouville, at the theater as well as the races. The 
peculiarity of her coquetry was that she seemed to 
value quantity more highly than quality or fidelity; 
she was as eager to dismiss old lovers as to attract 
new ones; it seemed as if what she sought was hom- 
age rendered to her powers of enchantment, and ac- 
knowledgment of her sovereignty, rather than the 
arousing of sentiments in which she could share. 

From the day upon which a lover showed his col- 
ors, all was at an end, she no longer paid him any at- 
tention; he had to return to the ranks. 

“Micheline worries me,” said the Princess often. 
“What does she want?” 

And as Germaine did not reply to that question the 
Princess became angry with Germaine, not having the 
courage to take Micheline to task. 

“It is your fault; it would not have been thus if 


MICHEUNE 


241 


you had endeavored to impress upon Micheline’s mind 
and heart the necessity of preparing herself for a mar- 
riage with Prince Witold.” 

“When Micheline was still a child, and when I 
spoke to her of Prince Witold, she replied that he 
was too melancholy, and she accused him of being 
bored by everything, of taking no interest in anything.” 

“Such accusations were childish.” 

“Certainly; however they manifested a certain 
rooted dislike against which my suggestions were 
powerless. Now when I speak to her of the Prince, 
and I assure you I do so often, in order to obey your 
instructions as well as to try to learn what is pass- 
ing v/ithin her, she always replies to my remarks in a 
jesting tone, or if I insist too much, she does not re- 
ply at all.” 

“It is wrong to conduct herself toward Witold 
thus.” 

“Is she the first girl of her age who has shown a 
spirit of coquetry? At sixteen do not all young girls 
dream of love, and is not their one desire to please 
not this or that one, but all the men who approach 
them?” 

“You need not excuse hdr. ” 

“I neither excuse nor blame her. I have tried to 
explain to her. ’ 

“Then what kind of a girl is she?” 

“A girl of her age, simply.” 

“Age is not sufficient ; there must be joined to that 
a natural inclination, and that is what causes me the 
greatest uneasiness.” 

i6 


242 


MICHELINE 


In any other than the Princess that reference to 
the natural tendencies might have been only an allu- 
sion, but from her, indulgent, kind, always careful 
not to wouud anyone, it was a remark which meant a 
great deal. 

If Micheline caused her so much uneasiness, it was 
because she was the child of her mother, and because 
that mother had sinned. It was true that during the 
seven years in which she had seen the woman daily, 
she could not utter the slightest reproach against her, 
and 3^et she was still beautiful and surprisingly young 
at forty. Her youth had been renewed by her life 
spent near Micheline. But what did that signify? 
The present could not efface the past. Notwithstand- 
ing years of atonement, the fault still existed. 

Before the confession made by Germaine to her, 
the Princess had at times regretted not having known 
Micheline’s parents, fancying that in that acquaint- 
ance she might find reasons for loving the child more 
tenderly; of course, they would be respectable people, 
such as she wished them to be, and they would be 
happy that she had adopted their daughter. But since 
Germaine had spoken, if she had not reasons for loving 
Micheline less, at any rate she had reasops for being 
uneasy. That avowal troubled her; she had not wished 
Micheline to be born under such conditions; that 
mother annoyed her, and she was tormented with re- 
gard to the father whom she did not know. 

If she had received Germaine’s recital without pro- 

♦ 

testations, without objections, it was not because sus- 
picion had not crossed her mind. 


MICHELINE 


243 


That nurse abandoning the child at the gates of 
Hopsore; their walk in the forest just at the moment 
of that desertion; the readiness with which Casimir 
had consented to take her home and to be her godfa- 
ther; the name of Micheline which had been given her; 
in all that there was a chain of evidence which could 
not help but move a woman whose mind was embit- 
tered by jealousy. It had not required that confession 
for her to be struck by certain points of resemblance 
which existed between Micheline and the Prince; her 
mild, blue eyes, her slender form, her gait, her affable, 
charming air. However she uttered no word, she 
allowed no suspicious thought to become apparent. 
Would it not be an insult to the memory of him she 
loved? Would it not humiliate, mortify her, to ad- 
mit before that woman that she had been deceived? 
If during the Prince’s lifetime, she had been proud 
of being loved, she was still more proud of it after his 
death. 

Although she said nothing, she was none the less 
grieved, and since that day, in spite of her efforts to 
cast them off, those strange facts had troubled her. 
Might not Micheline be Casimir’s child? Why might 
not that desertion have been arranged by that woman 
to free herself from her child and to impose her up- 
on her lover? 

Such a thing was possible; the dates given by Ger- 
maine proved nothing, since they might have been in- 
vented. Were such the case, she did not love the 
child less. Had she wished to do so, she would not 
have succeeded. 


244 


MICHELINE 


The Prince was in a manner transfigured in her 
mind, and she was inspired by an ardent, blind faith 
which admitted neither of discussion nor blame. Noth- 
ing that Casimir could have done could be wrong; 
she too had loved him not only as a husband but as a 
son. If he had been Micheline’s father, she would be 
the child’s grandmother. 

Time glided by. Still, she thought, it would be 
best not to inquire into matters too closely — to remain 
in uncertainty — and she adhered to her resolution. 

What would become of that marriage she had 
planned if Micheline continued such actions? Would 
not Witold be frightened away? Would he not with- 
draw his suit? Already more than once he had com- 
plained. She must therefore interfere. 


II 


That intervention was a grave matter to the Prin- 
cess, for she should certainly have to engage in an 
argument with Micheline, and she had a horror of 
arguments. If she dreaded discussions with strangers, 
she dreaded them still more with those she loved; and 
it was that which for a long time had prevented her 
from broaching the subject of matrimony to Micheline, 
certain as she was in advance of meeting with oppo- 
sition to her wishes. How far would that opposition 
go? She did not know; but it was evident at that 
time that Micheline did not think of becoming Wit- 
old’s wife. Who knew, if she had acted sooner, things 
might have taken a different turn? She had been 
wrong to rely upon Germaine who had done nothing, 
and it was one more grievance added to those she 
already had. 

Those seven years indeed had not passed without 
unpleasantnesses arising between the two women, and 
if there had not been open war, it was owing as much 
to prudence on the one side as to lack of resolution 
on the other. But although a quarrel had been 
avoided, the resentment was none the less deep, each 
being aware of the sacrifice she had made for the 
other. 


245 


246 


MICHELINE 


“The unhappy woman!” said the Princess to her- 
self scornfully. 

“The happy woman!” thought Germaine envi- 
ously. As for Witold, the Princess wondered, not 
daring to put the question frankly, what motive Ger- 
maine had obeyed in not engaging Micheline’s atten- 
tion and sympathy in his behalf. 

Did she not think a Sobolewski noble enough for 
her daughter? Did she feel no scruples as to a mar- 
riage between uncle and niece? Of all the things 
which had tormented her, that was one of the worst, 
and she had only cast it off by saying to herself that 
that legal prohibition was not acknowledged in soci- 
ety where one often saw uncles and nieces whom the 
church had united. 

Had she any serious fault to find with Witold? 
Had Michel ine confided in her, and would she not 
repeat that confidence? At any rate whatever might 
be the motive which had governed the instructress, it 
was certain that, if she had so desired, matters would 
have taken a different turn. 

It was therefore her duty as the “true mother” to 
repair the evil which the “false mother” had tried to 
cause. Had Micheline been satisfied with the idea of 
becoming Witold^ s wife, she would not have indulged 
in those acts of coquetry which might have compro- 
mised her had they been continued. And on the other 
hand, .Witold would not have appeared so bored; his 
manner justl}^ called forth censure and distanced Mich- 
eline. There was something strange about that situa- 


MICHELINE 


247 


tion which caused Witold to complain of Micheline, 
and Micheline of Witold. 

Micheline was coquettish because Witold was not 
demonstrative enough toward her, and was too gloomy, 
too dull, as she expressed it; while Witold was 
gloomy precisely because Micheline was coquettish. 
Evidently the girl was piqued that a man whom she 
saw daily should treat her as a child, and on his side 
Witold might be angry at being treated as an old 
man. 

“Oh, Micheline, how silly you are! “ said Witold. 

“Oh, Witold, how wise you are!” said Micheline. 

That must all be changed, and she had only to speak 
it seemed, in order to make Micheline less silly and 
Witold less wise, that is to say, that they might see 
one another as they really were — born one for the 
other; the objection which Micheline might offer to 
that marriage could not be very serious, and nothing 
besides that was to be feared. 

After having encouraged herself thus, and having 
made up her mind several times, she finally deter- 
mined to make an attempt; and one evening in Novem- 
ber, just before returning to Paris where Micheline 
would resume her habits of the preceding season, the 
Princess broke the ice. 

Germaine, as was her custom, every evening, had 
ascended to her apartment; they were alone in the 
little Chinese drawing-room on the ground-floor; a fire 
burned in the grate, the west wind howled without; 
they had the entire evening in which to chat without 
fear of being disturbed. 


248 


MICHELINE 


“You will acknowledge, my dear child, that I do 
not persecute you with observations?” 

“That is true; I will even say that you do not do 
so enough. If, therefore, you have something to say 
to-day, as I anticipate from your serious air, do not 
hesitate. I will lend you my ear.” 

“I beg of you to be serious yourself and not to jest. 
You are no longer a child, and I should like you to 
think as a girl of your age should.” 

“Tell me then what thoughts should lhave?” 

“The thoughts of a girl who is to be married.” 

Micheline rose hastily ^nd approaching her god- 
mother, placed her hand upon her lips: : “Will you 
be silent?” she exclaimed in a playful tone beneath 
which, however, it was easy to trace a certain emotion. 
“I am not a marrying girl!” 

“But—” 

She would not suffer herself to be interrupted. 

“What is a girl who wishes to marry?” she contin- 
ued with volubility. “It is one who for some reason 
or other wishes to leave her family, because she is 
bored, because she has not sufficient liberty, because 
she wishes to assure her future about which she is 
anxious, because some one will make her happy, be- 
cause she wishes to hear herself called madame, be- 
cause she longs to go out alone, because she pines for 
diamonds and luxuries. None of those reasons apply 
to my case: I do not wish to leave you, I am not 
bored, I have sufficient liberty, I have no need to 
worry about the future, I am as hap])y, thanks to you. 


MICHELINE 


240 


as anyone could be, I have enough pearls to scorn 
diamonds; why do you want me to marry?” 

“Because you have reached that age when both you 
and I should think of your marriage; it is my duty to 
call your attention to it.” 

But I am not eighteen; you seem anxious to get 
rid of me.” 

“I wish to settle you in life.” 

“You know I do not approve of youthful marriages; 
they resemble the lottery too much; one is not the 
winner once out of a thousand times. Do not fancy 
me older than I am, and let me seek and choose my 
own husband when I have obtained more prudence, 
more wisdom and other serious qualities with years.” 

“What do you mean by drawing about you all those 
lovers? ” 

“It amuses me. It is on that account that I have 
asked you not to speak to me, or to anyone else of 
my marriage. If I should marry they would disap- 
pear, and I wish to keep them.” 

“That is not proper.” 

“Why not? Have I ever given anyone the right to 
think that he was preferred? Then let me amuse 
myself, and find my pleasure where I will. It is my 
delight to have admirers. If I have still three or four 
good years, for it is no disgrace to marry at twenty or 
twenty-two, do not take them from me. Later on we 
will talk of marriage. For to-day, good-night if you 
will. ” 

And she bent over her godmother to kiss her, but 
the latter drew back. 


250 


MICHELINE 


"It is not only of marriage that we should talk, but 
of a husband as well." 

"It will do later on when we resume the subject of 
matrimony. I do not even want you to name him to 
me; it would annoy me to think that there was in the 
World a man who fancied he had the right to judge of 
what I do and what I say." 

“My duty is to name him, for it is not he alone whc 
desires this marriage; I speak in my name as well as 
his." 

Micheline was evidently uneasy, but she quickly 
controlled her feelings. 

“Then name your young man," said she laughing, 
“for I cannot guess who he may be. Do I know him?" 

“You know and love him, if not as your betrothed, 
at least as a friend; you have lived near him." 

Micheline’s lips quivered, betraying her emotion. 

“Is it Jacques?" she asked in an altered voice. 

“Which Jacques?" 

“There is only one; your nephew, Jacques Hebertot." 

"You are absurd! I asked you to be serious, for we 
are discussing the great event of your life, your hap- 
piness, mine." 

“Then it is John," said Micheline, making an 
effort to smile, “or else it is Peter." 

“It is Witold, Prince Sobolewski." 

At that name Micheline burst into a fit of laughter. 

“Why is he mute," she asked, “for he has never 
spoken to me of his matrimonial intentions? How is 
it that we have lived near each other, he has seen me 


MICHELINE 


251 


whenever he wanted to, as often as he wanted to, and 
yet he has never spoken to me!” 

“He has conducted himself like an honorable man. “ 
“I think he has conducted himself like a king who 
proposes by proxy.” 

“He has made no propositions; he desires that you 
become his wife, and I desire it too, for he will bestow 
upon you the name and title of the Sobolewskis, which 
the law does not permit me to confer upon you on 
adopting you. It is true, he has no money, but as 
you will be my heiress that makes little difference; 
and moreover, he has more than fortune: he has no- 
bility, grace, distinction, love, for he loves you.” 

With a gesture Micheline interrupted her godmother. 

“On that subject, godmother, let me judge for my- 
self. You say that he has nobility, that is true; 
grace, distinction — that might be questioned, but as 
for love, that is another affair. When Prince Witold 
deigns to take his place among those who call them- 
selves my admirers, then I can judge of that love. Until 
then, let us speak of it no more, I pray you, for, you 
understand, I shall never marry without loving my 
husband and without being certain that he loves me. 
When that proof shall have been made of Witold and 
of me, we will resume the subject, and we shall see if 
our love is great enough for us to sacrifice to him — . 
myself, my years of youth — yourself, godmother, our 
intimate, happy life.” 

“It is not to sacrifice one’s life that one marries.” 

“At least it is to sacrifice one’s liberty, and, I assure 


252 


MICHELINE 


you, I value mine too highly. But what I desire most 
is not to be separated from you.” 

“That marriage would not separate us.” 

“Who can tell? Just think, if I were to marry 
Witold, you would be a mother-in-law, and who can 
tell what a son-in-law will be to his mother-in-law? 
I, for my part, will consider your project, your wishes, 
and later on we will speak of it again — when the proof 
I require shall be made and well-made. Until then 
leave me my liberty; do not influence me, or else it 
will be you who have married me, and I should like 
to marry myself! This time, good-night, indeed!” 


Ill 


At Hopsore Germaine’s and Micheline’s apartments 
were the same as they had always been, communicat- 
ing, and separated only by two dressing-rooms in 
such a manner that at any moment they could pass 
from one to the other, see one another, speak to one 
another, could live indeed like mother and child. 

How many times had Germaine risen to gaze upon 
Micheline! The carpet muffled the sound of her foot- 
steps, and as the blinds were only closed when there 
was a storm, she could by choosing a moonlight night, 
approach Michel ine’s bed in which she slept the sleep 
of innocent girlhood. She remained there for hours, 
listening to her breathing, gazing upon her, admiring 
the grace of her attitude, the charm of her beautiful 
face upon which the silvery moonbeams played. 

On leaving the Chinese drawing-room, Micheline 
quickly mounted to her chamber, but, instead of paus- 
ing there, she passed through the two dressing-rooms, 
and entered Germaine’s. She found hex seated at a 
table, reading. 

It was Germaine’s custom not to retire until Mich- 
line had come upstairs and had bid her good-night. 
In accordance with her duty as governess she left the 
drawing-room after dinner, leaving “mother and 
daughter’* together when they were alone — leaving it 

253 


254 


MICHELINB 


much quicker when there was company at the castle. 

But, when MicheHne retired, she had her turn, 
and, into a shake of her hand, a last glance, she could 
infuse all the tenderness with which her heart was 
filled; she had her daughter during the night. 

By Micheline’s quickened footsteps, she had a pre- 
sentiment that something unusual had taken place; 
her first word was a question. 

“What is it, my child?’* 

“Are you sleepy this evening?” said Micheline with' 
out replying. 

“Not at all.” 

“Then, lie down, I beg you, and await me: I must 
speak to you without godmother surprising us. When 
she is aleep, I will return.” 

“What has happened?” 

“A very grave thing upon which my happiness de- 
pends. But if godmother suspected that I had con- 
sulted you, all would be lost.” Then, raising her 
voice, and speaking as they do on the stage in order 
to be heard if anyone is listening: “Good night, Mme. 
Germaine!” 

On returning to her room, she did not retire, but 
disrobing, she slipped into a white flannel dressing- 
gown, and waited. She had no need to fear that sleep 
would overcome her; she was too excited. With- 
out, the storm continued, rain fell in torrents and the 
wind howled; it was with difficulty that one could 
hear the bells chime. 

When she thought her godmother asleep, Micheline 


MICHELINE 


255 


returned to Germaine’s room, which was but dimly 
lighted, the lamp having been turned down. 

“Mme. Germaine! You must save me!” 

“Save you? From whom?” 

“From Witold, who wishes to marry me!” 

“You did not just find out the Princess’ intentions 
to-day; why are you so agitated?” 

“I thought that on seeing how I acted toward him, 
and toward the others, he would renounce his project. ” 

“Is that why you did so?” 

“For that at first, and also because I find pleasure in 
it; but he has not given up his hope. He wishes me 
to become his wife, my godmother has just told me.” 

“What did you reply?” 

“I took the matter as a jest, for at her first word I 
saw my godmother’s aim, and I had time, fortunately, 
to prepare myself — I pretended to be surprised: 
Witold, my husband! How should I have divined the 
intentions of a man as dull as he. At length without 
replying yes or no, I said that before all 1 must know 
if Witold loved me and if in my turn I could love 
him. Indeed, I left godmother, to come to ask you 
to save me. ” 

“ 1 ?” 

“To whom should I turn if not to you? Do you not 
love me? Have you not loved me as a mother for 
seven years?” 

“Dear child!” cried Germaine joyfully. 

“I do not know what a mother is, and I can form 
no idea from those of my friends, but I have never 
seen anyone who felt for her children the affection. 


256 


MICHELINE 


the solicitude, the gentleness, the unceasing kindness 
which you, who are only my governess, have felt for 
me.” 

“Oh, Micheline, Micheline!” murmured Germaine. 

”I could not tell you that without an occasion pre- 
senting itself, but since' I have found out, I wish you 
to know that my heart is filled with gratitude for you, 
I must tell you so — ” Bending over her she kissed her 
tenderly, while Germaine tried to fortify herself to 
resist the delirious joy which possessed her. 

"Since you are thus,” continued Micheline, return- 
ing to her subject, "is it not quite natural that I 
should turn to you when I am in danger^ and that I 
should ask you to protect me? It is evident that I 
cannot count on my godmother. If I had thought I 
could obtain any assistance from her, I would not 
have replied in jest as I did, having no other aim 
than to gain time. To her, that idea of my marriage 
is a settled thing, for in her eyes there is no finer 
title or name than that of ‘Prince Sobolewski; ^ were 
a Bourbon to sue for my hand, she would still prefer 
a Sobolewski.” 

"Your godmother is right, my child; it is indeed a 
noble name of which any woman no matter how well- 
born she be, might be proud.” 

"There is not only the name to be considered, there 
is the husband, and it was only to-day that I told you 
of my sentiments with regard to Witold. You remem- 
ber what I said to you seven years ago when we spoke 
of him?” 

"I have not forgotten one word.” 


Mme. Germaine ! You must save me .” — Pcige 



f 


I 



MICHELINB 


257 


“Of course m3’’ words were childish, but the sub- 
stance of them was that Witold wanted to marry me 
for the fortune my godmotlier would give me, and 
that I did not wish to be married for my money. 
What was true then is true now; it is my godmother’s 
fortune he has in view, as for me he cares nothing for 
me; were I a monster lie would marry me just the 
same.” 

“That is exaggerated, my child. Seven years ago 
the Prince did not know how you would please him; 
to day he considers 3'ou charming and desires to wed 
you, which is very right and natural; had 370U no 
money, his intentions would be the same — probably.” 

“Seven years ago I felt instinctively that Witold 
would never suit me, to-day I have good reasons for 
knowing it. Had I not known my godmother’s inten- 
tions, I should probably never have given Witold a 
thought; but knowing them, I did not allow an occa- 
sion to pass without studying him. Occasions were 
not lacking. I did not have to make any inquiries; 
my questions were anticipated, persons whom I scarcely 
know, as well as my companions, my friends, have 
spoken to me of him and very rarely did they disa- 
gree: 'Prince Witold is not a man whom a respecta- 
ble girl would marry!’ And I wish to be above re- 
proach, much more so than any other on account of 
my birth.” 

“It is for the very reason that everyone knows that 
Prince Witold intends to become your husband that 
you should not credit what is told you of him; who 
knows what part envy may play in those remarks?” 

17 


25S 


MICHELIl^E 


“I understand that; but there are things one need 
not hear in order to condemn Witold. Upon what 
does he live? Upon that which my godmother gives 
him. Is that noble? His brothers work, why does 
not he?" 

"He writes for the papers." 

"They say that he cannot write ten lines worth 
printing, and that he relates his social indiscretions 
to the true journalists with whom he divides. Is that 
noble? Is it respectable to present at the clubs 
strangers who come from one knows not where, but 
who almost invariably win? Would you, my dear 
Mme. Germaine, like me to become the wife of such 
a man? A foundling married to an adventurer, that 
is what I should be!" 

"What can I do for you, my child? You know bet- 
ter than anyone else that your godmother does not 
consult me as to what she shall do, and you know too, 
that it is only necessary for me to express my opinion 
in order to have her adopt a contrary course at once." 

"I do not ask you to give your advice with regard 
to Witold. I know how it would be received. I do 
not wish you to risk vexing my godmother. What 
took 'place at Grasse sufficed. What I ask of you is 
to find out, you who have the liberty which I have not, 
what truth there is in those propositions, and to 
obtain all the information with regard to Witold that 
you can. When we have it, we will find some means 
of convincing my godmother, and then I do not think 
she will persist in her project of marriage, in spite 
fo the fascination the name of Sobolewski exercises 


MICHELINE 


259 


over her. Until then I have only to gain time, and 
that I will undertake to do. I know that what I ask 
of you is difficult, but to whom could I turn if not to 
you? Who could protect me if not you, since my 
godmother is blinded by Witold? When I found that 
I was in danger, I thought of you at once, as a child 
thinks of its mother. In this terrible circumstance 
will you not be a mother to me, dear Mine. Germaine?” 

“Yes, my child, in this as in all others in which 
you have need of me, I shall be happy, very happy to 
prove my love and devotion.” 

And drawing Micheline to her, she clasped her in 
her arms and kissed her. 

“As a mother,” she murmured, “as a mother!” 

“I knew very well, ” exclaimed Micheline, “that you 
would not repulse me.” 

“But what you ask is so difficult — at least for me, 
a poor woman, without relatives and without support.” 

“We will seek together; it is a great point not to be 
forced to defend myself alone.” 

“That which will be a great point too, a greater, 
more decisive one, will be to oppose a marriage with 
him whom your godmother has chosen. Undoubtedly 
it will be something to prove to the Princess, if we 
can do so, that Prince Witold is not worthy of you; 
but it would be much better if in the place of the 
husband she has selected, we could propose another 
who would gratify her ambition as well. Is there not 
among the young people of your acquaintance one 
who might become that husband?” 

Micheline seemed confused. 


260 


MICHELINE 


“No,” said she. 

“You hesitated, my child. Can you not speak to 
me as — a child speaks to its mother, in all confidence?” 

For some time Micheline did not reply — at length^ 
she said: “Yes, it would be wrong not to be frank 
with you. Indeed,” she lowered her voice, “I love 
some one, some one who loves me, but he cannot — 
yet — give godmother the ambitious satisfaction of 
which you have spoken; we cannot therefore count up- 
on him to oppose Witold. On the contrary, she must 
know nothing of our love, and it is in you, in you 
alone, that I have confided.” 

Germaine was overcome; her daughter loved, was 
beloved; it was no longer the child who spoke. She 
made an effort to hide her emotion. 

“Will you not tell me whom you love?” she asked. 

“I should like to,” — she hesitated, then throwing 
back her head she said, “Do not think that I am not 
proud of him; his life has always been honorable.” 

“What keeps you from telling me, then?” 

“My love! But still I feel that in spite of all, 
nothing must be hidden from you. It is — Jacques.” 

“M. Hebertot!” 

“Oh, I beg of you ask me no questions, at least not 
to-day; later, I will tell you all. I am too troubled, 
too confused. Let me become more composed. You 
wanted to know, now, you know. I love Jacques. So 
you see I cannot be Witold^ s wife.” 


IV 


Indeed Michel ine had never shown any sympathy 
for Witold; and Germaine remembered how, after her 
arrival at Hopsore, the child had spokdn of him; how 
she had teased him, made sport of him, and tried to 
render him ill at ease; but at that time there was 
nothing decisive about her hostility. 

On the other hand, when, after an absence of five 
years, Jacques Hebertot returned to France, that an- 
tipathy had been plainly manifested. How was it 
that she had not understood it, above all when she 
knew of Micheline’s childish affection for Jacques, 
and of Jacques’ brotherly love for Micheline? She 
had closed her eyes instead of opening them, deceived 
by the reception which Micheline had accorded the 
young sailor. She had expected a transport of de- 
light when he arrived home after an absence of five 
years, during which Micheline had spoken of him con- 
stantly, pronouncing his name evidently only for the 
pleasure of feeling it on her lips, caring for, nurs- 
ing the beasts he sent her from time to time, pursuing 
the study of geography eagerly in order to know in 
what countries he was, and what dangers he ran. But 
in place of that transport of joy, she had witnessed a 
very formal, if not chilly reception. 

261 


262 


MICHELIhlE 


“Ho’w do you do, Jacques? how have you been since 
last we met?” 

Yet he came crowned with an aureole of glory, ill, 
undermined by the fever, decorated at the age of 
twenty-two, and honored with the golden medal of 
the Geographical society for services rendered. 

He told them how during the three years spent at 
Fonta-Djalon, he had been ill very often, so ill that 
on descending to the plain he took enormous quan- 
tities of quinine to prevent him from dying. Not once 
during those recitals, at which the Princess and Ger- 
maine were present, did Micheline betray any emo- 
tion which could have revealed her sentiments. 

During the four months which Jacques spent at Hop- 
sore, nothing occurred which led her to believe that 
he was still her lover; he was a friend, a companion, 
nothing more. The young girl exhibited a certain de- 
gree of reserve which proved that she was no longer a 
child. It was that reserve which misled Germaine. 
She fancied that Micheline wanted Jacques to under- 
stand that all was at an end, and that of their early 
sentiments only friendship remained; and as she 
thought that natural, she voluntarily believed it. 
Moreover during those four months she had not left 
Micheline, she had not left her alone a single moment 
with Jacques, so she thought; it seemed therefore im- 
possible that anything could have taken place except 
what she had seen and heard. And what she had seen, 
what she had heard had been perfectly innocent on the 
part of Micheline, as well as that of Jacques. 

The difference between the manners of the Mich- 


MICHELINE 


263 


eline of that time, and those of the child of ten was 
so striking that one could not help noticing it. Her 
precocity had given place to absolute silence from 
which one could not even entice her. 

Germaine had ascribed the change to the awaken- 
ing of a sentiment of modesty while in reality it was 
the awakening of love. If Micheline did not speak of, 
and did not wish to hear others speak of matters of 
love, it was because she loved. And it was because 
she loved that she disliked and scorned Witold. 

Now all was clear, but as is often the case it was 
too late. Such was the situation, and all the regrets 
which Germaine could utter, all the reproaches she 
heaped upon herself for her blindness, did not change 
matters; she must not heed the past. The present and 
future claimed her attention. 

Evidently no comparison could be made between 
Witold and Jacques; the one had all the qualities 
which the other lacked: youth, enthusiasm, upright- 
ness, frankness, gayety, a heart; while he had none of 
the defects or vices to which the other gave himself 
up; but Witold was a Prince, while Jacques was only 
an officer without a name or fortune. Jacques was a 
Hebertot, Witold was a Sobolewski, and that to the 
Princess as well as to Germaine was more fascinating, 
more alluring than all other titles in the world. 

Micheline would not be a Sobolewski! How would 
the Princess become reconciled to that? Was it likely 
that the Princess would ever consent to have her 
adopted daughter cast aside the name of Sobolewski 


‘<364 


MICHHLINE 


which she was so proud to bear, to assume that of 
Beaumoussel of which she was ashamed? 

Germaine spent the night reviewing the situation; 
weighing the pro and con of the part she should take, 
wondering by what means she could amass the proofs 
Micheline required, and also wondering what effect 
those proofs would produce upon the Princess. 

Undoubtedly it was hard for her to renounce all 
hope, but that must not influence her — her daughter 
was concerned, not herself; it is not a name or a title 
which constitutes a woman’s happiness, but the hus- 
band; and certainly Micheline could not be happy 
with Witold for her husband; although the sacrifice 
was great, she must accept it without a murmur. 
Micheline did not want Witold, she must oppose^ 
him. 

But to oppose Witold, who had influenced her so 
long by his name, did it follow that she would ser\e 
Jacques who had only his personal merit and qualities 
which had captivated Micheline? 

As she considered and reconsidered the facts upon 
which her child’s happiness depended, she suddenly 
saw the path to pursue. He had not only his merit 
but his name; he was a Beaumoussel. Who, at the 
Princess’ death, would have inherited that large for- 
tune earned by the doctor, if Micheline had not 
taken the place which did not belong to her legally? 

Doubt upon that point was out of the question; 
on unfriendly terms with her own family the Princess* 
would have left the greater part of her fortune to the 
family of him who had made it— to the Beaumoussels. 


MICHELINE 


265 


It was therefore a mere act of justice and of repa- 
ration, for Micheline to give them with one hand 
what she had taken from them with the other. To do 
that she would only have to become Jacques’ wife. 

Like many of those who have suffered, Germaine 
was disposed to* admit that the hand of Providence 
was always stretched above her for expiation or rec- 
ompense. 

For ten years she had been separated from her child: 
that was her punishment. For seven years, she had 
been near her: that was the beginning of the remis- 
sion of her sins. That marriage would be absolution. 


V 


Although Providence had planned that marriage 
between Micheline and Jacques, it would never take 
place if one crossed one’s arms and waited; if ever 
the proverb, “Heaven helps those who help them- 
selves,” had any truth in it, it applied to that case. 

Very early Micheline entered Germaine’s room. 

“Did you sleep well?” she asked. 

“No, my child, not at all.” 

“I slept very well; I have not rested so well for a 
long time. My mind was easy; I felt reassured, and 
I did not awake until this morning, feeling what it is 
to be protected. One sleeps uneasily when one is 
afraid, and I shall not be afraid any more, since you 
are here.” 

“Do not put too much faith in that protection, my 
child ; it is very weak. All night I sought some means 
of coming to your aid; I found none, however.” 

“But you will.” 

At eleven o’clock they were to take the train. 

Before breakfast, while the Princess was giving her 
parting instructions to the head-gardener and to Phi)-, 
bert, Micheline and Germaine went into the garden to 
gather the chrysanthemums which the storm of the 
preceding night had spared. Germaine soon profited 
by this tete-a-tete to return to the subject, so interest- 

266 


MICHELINE 


267 


ing to her, which Micheline had contrived to evade 
the day before — her love for Jacques. 

But at her first words, Micheline tried to escape 
and took the shears to cut the flowers; Germaine was 
forced to insist. 

“If you want me to aid you, must I not know all?” 

“What I can tell you will not make you know 
Jacques any better than you know him now.” 

“At least I can see if he deserves your love. M. 
Hebertot knew your godmother’s plans with regard 
to you and Prince Witold; it is strange that he should 
have sought to win your love.” 

“He did not seek to win my love; I loved him 
naturally without his desiring my love, without his 
knowledge. ” 

“At least it is strange that he has spoken to you of 
his love. ” 

“He has not spoken to me of it openly; he must not 
be accused of that.” 

“You see that I must know all, since circumstances 
seem to accuse him. ” 

“Do you remember that I told you when you came 
to Hopsore that I had a lover. I spoke very freely 
of it then, for I did not know what I was saying. All 
day long, Ella, Jeanne and my playmates told stories 
of their lovers; as I did not wish to be behind them, 
I told them too. Only as I had no lover, I had to 
find one, and I took Jacques. That first made me 
think of him, for he did not imagine that I could be 
his sweetheart. I need not tell you that, eh? Ah! 
if one only knew what an effect those stories which 


268 


MICHELINE 


children whisper in their corners have, no matter how 
carefully they are watched! Certainly I liked him, 
I thought him a nice boy, a pleasant companion; he 
played with me, and I liked him very much; my lik- 
ing for him increased so much faster because I had 
no one to love. But it is certain too, that that friend- 
ship would not have ripened into what it is had it not 
been for those stories of lovers. For five years I 
talked of mine.” She laughed. “Of my lover who 
was over the sea! When he returned I ready loved 
him, and then I ceased speaking of him because I loved 
him.” 

“And he?” interrupted Germaine. “I was always 
with you.” 

“Do you think so? Were you with us when we 
danced in the salon at Trouville? One can say many 
things in the quadrille — and one does not always talk 
of geography when turning the pages of ‘A Trip 
around the World! ^ But I will not humiliate you by 
an enumeration which would surprise you. ” 

“When did he speak to you of his love?” 

“Ah, things did not happen in that way; it is only 
on the stage that they speak of love and make propo- 
sals. One evening when we were turning the pages 
of the -Trip Around the World,' looking for the trav- 
els in Japan to which country he was going, he said 
to me suddenly: ‘Where will you be in three years 
when I return? Married, no doubt, I will find my 
aunt alone at the castle.' That he should have such 
a thought took away my very breath. I replied: ‘It 
is because you think that I shall marry Witold, that 


MICHELINE 


269 


3^ou say that to me? Very well, you may depend upon 
it that he will never become my husband for I hate 
him. I shall marry a young man who has a heart and 
who has made a name for himself.’ I can see you 
yet; we were in the large drawing-room, you were 
embroidering near the malachite table; my godmother 
and Witold were on the balcony. Having uttered 
those words, I closed the book and raised my eyes 
to his; we loved one another! Fifteen minutes later 
we left for the ball at the salon to which you chape- 
roned me, and we danced together all the evening. 
That was on the nineteenth of July, and as Jacques 
did not return to sea until September, we had more 
than two months in which to love one another and 
to tell our love. The day before his departure, I 
promised him that I would marry no one else, neither 
Witold, nor anyone, and that I would await his re- 
turn. To show you what sort of a man he is, he did 
not wish to accept my promise; he loved me, he would 
love me, but he did not wish to bind me. If I still 
loved him when he returned to France, he would be 
happy, the happiest man on earth in fact. If, in the 
meantime, however, I had been forced to yield to my 
godmother’s wishes, he would always love me. So 
you see that I am bound as securely and safely as if 
I were bound by the most solemn oath.” 

At that moment the breakfast bell rang; they must 
return to the castle; the bouquet of chrysanthemums 
was not very large. 

From Trouville to Paris Germaine had time to re- 
flect and to cast about for means of action; but her 


270 


MICHELINB 


brain could weave no plan as it had the night before; 
she could find nothing against Witold, nor for Jacques : 
nothing to further the marriage of the one, nor 
to favor that of the other. The grievances she had 
against the sailor were softened by Micheline’s story. 

When they arrived at their house, they found Witold 
there awaiting the Princess in order to pay his respects 
to her on the very day of her return; that caused 
Micheline to pout and appear more disdainful than 
usual. But she pouted still more when her godmother 
kept Witold to dinner, for she was still like the child 
of yore in this, that she wished to be warned before a 
tooth was drawn; she had not been prepared for that 
dinner with Witold, and she had not summoned up 
courage enough to bear his presence. 

After dinner, she pleaded fatigue and retired, leav- 
ing Witold and her godmother alone; contrary to 
what she expected, the Princess did not attempt to 
detain her, she even seemed anxious to have her go. 

As soon as Micheline had closed the door of the 
drawing-room, the Princess broached the subject which 
had caused her to desire Micheline to retire, and 
frankly she repeated her conversation of the day before, 
without any exaggeration, like the truthful woman 
she was. 

"Micheline, my dear Witold, blames you for your 
coldness, and with a sentiment of coquetry; she is 
vexed that you treat her as a child and not as a young 
lady." 

"I have only been awaiting your permission to 
assume that attitude; I should have considered that 


MICHELINE 


271 


I was acting dishonorably had I conducted myself dif- 
ferently. 

"Very well, you have now that permission." 

Witold took his sister-in-law's hand and kissed it 
with an expression of profound emotion. 

"My position was such that I could not even ask for 
that authority, any more than I could seem to be 
assiduous in the presence of that adorable child. Ah! 
if you had not told of your plans, or rather if I had 
my share of the estates of the Sobolewskis, matters 
would have been different. But for the very reason 
that I should have seemed to be grasping after your 
wealth, I had to seal my lips." 

"You must explain that to Micheline. ’’ 

"Assuredly. As all doubt has been removed from 
your mind, and I hope that Micheline will under- 
stand it as you have." 

"There is no doubt of it, my dear Prince." 

"It would be a great disappointment to me were it 
to be otherwise; Micheline must know that there is 
no thought of speculation in that project of marriage, 
and that it is because I love her that I want her for 
my wife; for, from what I know of her I feel con- 
vinced that she would not love the man who sought 
to marry her for her money, and I want her to love 
me. In that, at least, I am a Sobolewski, and if I 
have very few of poor Casimir's qualities, I resemble 
him at any rate in this, that I am a man of feeling, 
and would stake my all upon love." 

At that remark the Princess felt the tears rush to her 
eyes and she extended her hand to her brother-in-law. 


272 


MICHELINE 


“YeS; you have a noble heart, ’ said she. 

Witold’s eyes, ordinarily so expressionless, smiled 
sorrowfully. 

“That is what troubles me at this moment,” said 
he, “and to a certain degree it causes me a great deal 
of anxiety, for if Michel ine does not return my love, 
if my affection does not win her, I will renounce my 
pretensions — my mind is made up on that score, and 
nothing — not even despair, could make me change it; 
a wife must love me as I love her, or I shall have no 
wife.” 

“She will love you, do not fear.” 

“May it be so, Princess!” 


VI. 


Up to that time Witold had seemed cold and indiffer- 
ent toward Micheline; it was because he wished to 
keep the Princess on tenter-hooks. Would he marry 
Micheline or not ? In order to obtain from the Princess 
all that he wished, she must have that doubt constantly 
suspended over her head, and she must feel that the 
marriage which she so passionately desired could not 
be arranged. “What will Micheline be like?” he often 
repeated with an anxious air. 

Then the Princess began to tremble. If she did not 
tremble sufficiently, he persisted in his remarks, and 
redoubling his coldness toward Micheline, he ad- 
dressed to her his usual observations: “My God, Mich- 
eline, how silly you are! ” 

And his chagrin was so great, his voice so despair- 
ing, that the Princess did not know what to do to an- 
ticipate his desires; at that time he could have avowed 
all his pecuniary embarrassments; she would have 
helped him at once. She excused the child’s faults, 
and when she saw that he was in a less gloomy mood, 
she explained that those faults were not what they 
seemed; in reality there was not a better girl. 

“Certainly,” he replied, “I am of your opinion; she 
is charming, but she makes me uneasy.” 

To her praise he replied with criticism; there was 
i8 273 


274 


MtCHELlNE 


one faci which he brought up constantly and which he 
emphasized, for it was his strongest weapon — her 
birth. 

“If we knew her parents? Who knows but that that 
which is alarming in her comes from either her father 
or her mother? Then it would be incurable. That 
mother was probably an adventuress, if no worse. As 
for you, I know that you do not care very much, but I 
believe in heredity, and it is different. Heredity made 
of me a Sobolewski with the good qualities and defects 
of our race. Heredity may have transmitted to her 
the same. What was her family? — that is the ques- 
tion. “ 

What should she reply to that? The Princess was 
only too well aware of the force of that argument; 
naturally a Sobolewski, the heir of the qualities of 
that noble family would be afraid to ally himself to 
a woman who was descended — from whom? 

Undoubtedly a similar system would not work with 
Micheline, and Witold knew that better than anyone; 
he had not to deal with Micheline at that moment, 
but with the Princess Micheline; he would attend to 
later on when she was old enough to marry, and when 
he felt assured of only having to say the word: at the 
present time what was needed was that the Princess 
should not haggle when he knocked at the door of her 
cash box, and that means was the surest he could have 
found to open it. If he frightened her, he could do 
with her as he willed. 

“You know that my brothers are not married. I am 
the last of the Sobolewskis. ” 


MlCHELim 


275 


He bad succeeded in using the name of Sobolewski 
with admirable art, and he knew so well how to manage 
it, that each time he pronounced it, the effect was 
certain; the Princess put her hand upon the little 
golden key suspended from her bodice; was it not 
necessary to prove to him, to that proud heir of the 
Sobolewskis, that he had only to marry Micheline to 
have that golden key pass into his hands? Thanks to 
that means he had been able to obtain his position in 
the Parisian world. 

When he left college, shortly after his brother's 
death, the Princess had given him an income of six 
thousand francs, which she soon doubled; but how 
could he live on twelve thousand francs! what a figure 
would he have cut in the world! She, poor woman, 
thought herself very generous. But were twelve thou- 
sand francs sufficient for a man like him? From his 
twentieth year to that day, he had never spent less, 
annually, than from seventy-five to one hundred 
thousand, and he had been forced to obtain the money. 

Another, in his place, an adventurer who was not a 
Sobolewski, would simply have asked the Princess for 
it, threatening not to keep his promise of marriage, 
and he would p'robably have obtained it; but he was 
not an adventurer, he was a Sobolewski; if he turned 
to the Princess relying upon that severity and that 
fear, it was only to complete that which his intelli- 
gence and his wits suggested. For he made use of 
both in the world, and it was truly not his fault if 
they often failed; life is so hard for those who have 
not one hundred thousand francs income! 


276 


MICHELINE 


What could he do? Paint like his brothers? Com- 
pose music like Casimir? Should he try science and 
agriculture like Ladislas whose life was one hard 
struggle? 

He was a Prince; he wanted to live the brilliant, 
luxurious life of a man of his rank. He had only to 
look about him to see people who, without a sou, 
spent one hundred thousand francs a year, he would 
do as they did. 

When he had commenced to write society arti- 
cles for the papers, he was very young, and the 
trifle which journalism brought him in, added some- 
what to his income, which was then far from being 
one hundred thousand francs. But it afforded him 
pleasure to speak of the persons with whom he was 
thrown and whose friendship he wished to gain, and 
he fulfilled his duties with a light heart, which duties, 
while bringing him in several louis from time to time, 
cost him very little trouble: “The fete was a success; 
among the guests we noticed, “ etc. That could be writ- 
ten rapidly while breakfasting, and without giving it 
any thought. Without any great effort it brought him 
money, and more than that, it was the' cause of the 
formation of useful and pleasant relations, not only 
in a certain circle where they are eager for news, 
but in journalistic life where innumerable hands 
stretched out to him. He was a Prince; no one feared 
him; all were proud to appear in public with him 
and to use his name; “I said yesterday to my friend. 
Prince Sobolewski. My friend, Prince Sobolewski, 
said to me.” 


MICHELINE 


277 


But those paltry louis soon became insufficient. 
Where should he find more? The aristocrats, whose 
names up to that time he had mentioned, never 
thought of paying for the articles they gave him, and 
the newspapers were not disposed to pay him any 
higher price. 

By the side of those aristocrats there were advent- 
urers, parvenus, people of doubtful character, for- 
eigners, all that Bohemian world which demanded the 
publicity which respectability cannot give, and which 
is ready to set its price upon services rendered. It 
was to those whom he fled ; by the side of the names 
which occupied a prominent place in the Parisian 
world, were placed those of Bohemia. 

He turned his attention, too, to horse-racing and 
gaming: at first when he had been admitted into the 
clubs he v^as contented with the few louis he won, 
but there, too, they soon proved insufficient, and 
finding it necessary to use other means than those 
employed in the regular way, he allied himself with 
associates who were no better than those he had on 
the turf. 

“Who is that fellow? He was introduced by Prince 
Sobolewski. ” 

All this was known to Germaine, but not in detail, 
that she might say to the Princess: 

“Such is the man you wish Micheliiie to marry!” 


VII 


Proofs were required; how could she obtain them, 
Germaine wondered. She could find no solution to her 
problem, until three days after their return to Paris, 
when a strange event occurred which seemed to her 
providential. 

One afternoon when the Princess and Micheline had 
gone for their usual walk on the Bois and she had 
remained at home, a servant informed her that a man 
whose card read “M. Vauvineux, ” desired to see her. 

She knew that M. Vauvineux had formerly been one 
of the Princess* business men, and that of late he had 
founded a banking and credit house, called U Uni- 
verselle^ destined, he said, to make a revolution in the 
financial world. He had come to Hopsore a number 
of times during the summer, and she had lunched with 
him at the Princess* table. 

However, as she had no business of any kind with 
him, and as she never interfered in that of the Prin- 
cess*, she hesitated about going downstairs. 

“Did you tell M. Vauvineux that the Princess would 
return at six o* clock?” 

“Certainly; but he insisted that I bring you his card 
and that I tell you he would be glad if you would give 
him a few minutes of your time.” 

No doubt it was about some urgent business of the 
278 


MICHELINE 


279 


Princess* that he wanted to speak; notwithstanding 
her dislike to step beyond the bounds of her position 
as governess, she could not hesitate long. 

She descended the stairs, and £ound Vauvineux await- 
ing her, more insinuating, more honeyed-tongued, 
more smiling than she had ever seen him. 

“I beg your pardon for disturbing you, madame. I 
must see the Princess to-day, and I thought you 
could tell me if she would be at home this afternoon.” 

“I do not think she is going out, but I cannot tell 
you positively.’’ 

“May I beg of you to ask her in case she should go 
out, to wait for me until half-past eight?” 

“I will give her your message.” 

“It is not only necessary to give her the message, 
but to impress it upon her.” 

“Ido not take the liberty of advising the Princess.” 

“That is to be regretted, for very often you might 
render her a service.” 

Germaine did not reply. 

“Well, in this case,” continued Vauvineux, ap- 
proaching her chair as they do on the stage when they 
wish to show the public that something confidential 
is about to be said, “it is highly important that I 
should see the Princess this evening, and you will un- 
derstand it to be so if you will listen to me a few 
minutes. The success of our company — I should say 
of the company of which I am the head — is such that 
we have trebled our capital: it was ten millions; we 
have increased it to thirty.” 

Germaine was wondering in what way those details 


280 


MICHELINE 


could interest her, when a word from Vauvineux ren* 
dered her attentive. 

“You know that the Princess has invested ixv U UnU 
verselle three hundred thousand francs, which for one 
year alone have yielded her fifty thousand francs div- 
idend. It has been an unprecedented success — such 
an one as we never dared to dream of. That she may 
profit by a new departure we are preparing, and which 
is known to no one as yet, she must intrust to me a 
considerable sum, which she is well able to do (I 
know her situation), and we will double it for her, 
which will enable her to procure for her adopted 
daughter another husband than Prince Witold.” 

Vauvineux lowered his voice as he uttered those 
last words: 

“I speak to you so frankly,” continued Vauvineux,. 
“because I have noticed how deeply attached you 
seem to be to your pupil, and because from that I 
fancy that you would like her to have a different hus- 
band from Prince Witold.” 

The day of their return to Paris, they had mentioned 
Vauvineux during dinner, and Witold, who usually 
did not utter ten consecutive words, had overwhelmed 
the financier with reproaches. There was between the 
two men a declared hostility which explained why 
Vauvineux should try to revenge himself upon his 
adversary. 

He could talk as long as he wanted to; Germaine 
was all attention. Who knew if she could not obtain, 
through him, the means for which she had sought ip 
vain? 


MICHELINE 


281 


“You are aware,” continued Vauvineux, “of the 
respectful attachment which renders me the Princess' 
devoted servant; it is to her that I owe the wealth 
which I have had the good-fortune to acquire, to the 
co-operation she generously lent me when I had noth- 
ing, and I should like to prove my gratitude in some 
other way than by words. Already I have had the 
pleasure of investing three hundred thousand francs 
for her in our concern; but I do not consider that I 
have paid my debt to her; I shall only have done so, 
when I shall have given her the means of marrying 
that charming young girl in a manner worthy of her. 
Under the present circumstances. Prince Witold might 
be entertained as a suitor, for the Beaumoussel profits 
are rapidly decreasing, and it is certain that they will 
do so from year to year; but if I can, as I hope, quad- 
ruple her fortune, she will find some one better than 
that Polish prince who has only his t\i\e for him, and 
who has — all sorts of things against him.” 

Germaine could not resist the temptation of asking: 
“What things?” 

“That would take too long to explain just now, but 
if later on you wish to know about Prince Witold, I 
am at your service; there might be a great deal told, 
and only the Princess' blindness has prevented her 
from seeing that he can not be her daughter's hus- 
band. ” 

“But,” said Germaine, eager to know all at once. 

“You may be certain,” replied Vauvineux, “that the 
surest means is the increase of her fortune, which I 
propose, and which we will realize if you will aid me 


282 


MICHELINE 


in proving to the Princess the advantages of our 
scheme. ” 

Germaine was about to reply that she had no influ- 
ence over the Princess, but she fortunately refrained 
in time. Vauvineux^ object which at first she did not 
understand, became clearer to her as their conversa- 
tion continued. Evidently what Vauvineux desired was 
that she should impress upon the Princess the neces- 
sity of deciding to take more stock in the company. 
Fancying that she had a certain amount of influ- 
ence, he tried to win her over, and with that aim he 
worked upon her attachment to Micheline, as he tried 
to gain strength by means of her antipathy to Wit- 
old which he had divined from the questions she had 
asked him with regard to the Prince. All the rest 
were only the pretexts and trickeries of a man who 
was a master in the art of deceit. 

If she had any doubts as to his intention, the last 
words he addressed to her before leaving would have 
dissipated them. 

“It is customary,” said he, “that every medium in 
any business matter, receives a commission. I should 
not dare to offer one to such a person as you, but we 
shall be happy to place at your disposal, several paid- 
up shares which represent a small fortune.” 

He turned toward the door only to turn back, for he 
had not said all. 

“Of course, it is understood that if the Princess 
would be inconvenienced by receiving me this even- 
ing, you need not detain her. I will return to-mor- 
row. ^She must not be irritated. I have not lost any 


MICHELINE 


383 


time, since we have arrived at an understanding.” 

Those words were accompanied by a smile which 
said plainly that that desire to find out if the Prin- 
cess were going out or not that evening, had only been 
a pretext in order to arrive "at an understanding." 
He had not come on the Princess’ account, but to gain 
the medium. He left with the conviction of having 
succeeded; the grand marriage for Micheline, the 
medium’s commission had produced their effect! 

If Vauvineux had had to deal only with the Prin- 
cess, he would not have taken those precautions; he 
had known her for some time, and knew what means 
to use to sway her, whether by blinding her, or by 
intimidation, but he had to reckon upon Witold 
who would guard a fortune which he regarded as his, 
and it was against the Prince that he had sought an 
ally in Germaine. 

Better than anyone else he knew how easily the 
Princess yielded to the influence of those about her, 
and he hoped that that governess, whom he judged to 
be shrewd, would know just what to say to do away 
with Witold’s opposition; since she was shrewd, she 
would be happy to prevent a marriage of which she 
did not approve, and she would too, be sensible to 
the bait of a commission. 

Besides, he had had no choice: he had chosen Ger- 
maine, because he could find no other medium near 
the Princess, and it was necessary that he should 
obtain from her all that she could give. For, not- 
withstanding its twenty-five per cent interest, Z’ Uni- 
verselle would become extinct if the new appeal for 


284 


MICHELINE 


funds did not prove a success, and that would be ter- 
rible, for it would be a disgraceful death which would 
lead its directors to gaol for violation of the statutes, 
for false statements and subscriptions. 

Indeed, it would not be the first time that Vauvi- 
neux had been in a similar position. But would it 
not be a pity, truly, to let Z’ Universelle fail, his 
latest creation which he had studied so carefully for 
three years in the solitude imposed upon him by the 
law at Melun? For it was there that it had had its 
birth — that company which was to make a revolution 
in the financial world. 

For almost a year he had worked hard at that plan, 
when one morning he was given for a companion a 
man with whom he had formerly had some connection; 
a fine, intelligent, daring fellow, named La Parisiere. 

“You here? — Do not mention it — for a simple breach 
of the law — like myself.” 

Of course they formed an intimacy; is it not in 
misfortune that great hearts reveal themselves? 

“For how long?” 

“Two years; and you?” 

“Three; I have served one year — we shall leave to- 
gether.” 

They did indeed leave Melun within a few days of 
one another, united by the project of forming L' Uni- 
verselle, 

Vauvineux was not selfish; he had disclosed his 
scheme to his friend, and each had studied it, per- 
fected it. 

It was very simple; instead of running the 


MICHELINE 


285 


company under their names, which their proceedings 
had rendered impossible, they would form a board of 
directors composed of the most illustrious names in 
aristocratic circles, and, remaining behind the scenes, 
the two men would be contented to be the financial 
counselors U Universelle\ as they would have only in- 
capable people at the head of their company, they 
would be the real masters; nothing could be done 
without them. 

With regard to obtaining as many names as they re- 
quired they felt no uneasiness. Nor did they dream 
that any one would object to associating a respectable 
name with theirs. As for fearing that their past would 
hinder them for a moment, they had had too much ex- 
perience in the business world to admit such nonsense; 
they forget quickly in Paris, and much more quickly 
on the Bourse. 

Besides, where would people stop if they began to 
reproach one another? 

They had succeeded so far in their hopes; they 
had found more names than they could use; they had 
encountered no repugnance; they had not even been 
reproached. 

“They are very enterprising fellows, that Vauvineux 
and La Parisi^re; if they have been unfortunate, they 
have paid for it. “ 

However, although they were so shrewd, they did 
not try to avoid those breaches of the law which threat- 
ened to again send them to Melun, and it was for 
that reason that their capital, which was far from the 
ten millions they claimed, was to be trebled ; if the 


m 


MICHELINE 


Princess could be persuaded to subscribe again, they 
would be saved. No stone must therefore be left un- 
turned to induce her to do so. 


VIIl 


When Germaine heard the Princess^ carriage re- 
turn, she went downstairs to tell her of Vauvineux’ 
visit. 

On the staircase she met. Micheline. 

"Oh, Mme. Germaine, what a bore!" said the latter 
in a whisper; "Witold is to dine with us again. It is 
what I call persecution. Do not be vexed if I abuse 
him." 

"Calm yourself, and be reassured. During your ab- 
sence, heaven has sent us an ally. When we are alone, 
I will explain my hopes to you. Where is the Prin- 
cess?" 

♦ 

"In the blue drawing-room with the monster." 

Germaine found the "monster," as Micheline called 
him, with the Princess, and before him she delivered 
Vauvineux’ message. 

"What does he want?" 

"He says it concerns some new venture which is as 
yet unknown to anyone." 

"At what time is hq coming?" asked Witold. 

"At half-past eight." 

"I am curious to know what that new venture may 
be. " 

"Another loan from you, my dear sister,” said Wit- 
old. 


287 


288 


MICHELINE 


“I have up to this time made too good a bargain 
with Vauvineux for your accusation to be just, my 
dear Witold.” 

“It is precisely because he has done you a good 
turn that it is to be feared he will do you some 
great harm; is not that always the rase?” 

As he spoke Micheline entered the room. 

“You are not just toward Vauvineux,” replied the 
Princess, "what I have invested in the company has 
brought me in fifty thousand francs; that is very 
good.” 

“Yes; but how long will that last?” 

The Princess did not like to receive advice unless 
she asked for it, and much less did she like to have 
her affairs interfered with. Already in spite of her 
aversion to discussions, she had several times had to 
defend herself against Witold’s encroachments, and 
on that point she showed great firmness. 

“Vauvineux would not have advised me if the vent- 
ure had not been safe,” said she abruptly. 

“M. Vauvineux is very fond of godmother,” added 
Micheline, speaking only out of a spirit of opposition. 

“I do not say that he is not fond of her, but only 
that in dealing with a man who has had such a record 
in the past, it might be prudent to be more cautious.” 

“Do you think, my dear Witold, that if that past 
had been as you say, he would have found people like 
the Duke de Charmont, the Marquis de Mestosa, and 
all the great names which compose the board of di- 
rectors, to shield him? As for myself, I consider that 
the misfortunes which have come to that poor Vau- 


MlCHELIhlE 


280 


vineux is a lesson by which he has profited, and I tell 
you that it will no more hinder me from intrusting 
him with funds for that new undertaking than it hin- 
dered me at first. ” 

“You do not know all that is said of him.” 

“I know that those who succeed are always exposed 
to envy and calumny.” 

“There are proofs.” 

“I certainly should not close my eyes to evidence, 
but first it must be obtained.” 

“Very well, I promise you I will obtain it, for 
I cannot allow a woman like you to become his 
victim. Will you give me a few days before you 
make any agreement with Vauvineux? If you wish a 
certain time set, say in a week?” 

“What can you do in eight days?” 

“It will give me time to prove to you that it is im- 
prudent to make any arrangements with Vauvineux. 
Are eight days too much to save your fortune?” 

To a question put in such words, the Princess could 
not reply with a refusal. 

Without doubt it was painful to her to seem to 
abandon Vauvineux who had always been so attentive 
to her — at least, so she thought. But, on the other 
hand, she could not refuse Witold. Indeed, that fort- 
une which he was protecting was to a certain de- 
gree his, and he already seemed to consider it his — 
which explained his interference and legitimatized it. 

“Very well,” said she, “I promise to conclude noth- 
ing with Vauvineux for a week.” 


290 


MICHELINE 


Contrary to her usual custom, Germaine had re- 
mained in the room during that conversation, and to 
keep herself in countenance, she had called Micheline 
to her, but she did not lose a word of what was pass- 
ing between Witold and the Princess. 

During dinner no more was said of Vauvineux. At 
half -past eight, the Princess rerriarked that he would 
soon arrive and gayly she assured Witold that she 
would keep her promise. 

Germaine wondered hov/ she could manage to ex- 
change a few words with the financier, but she could 
think of no way by which she could bring it about. 

Vauvineux did not come. 

“You see, he is not as anxious as you fancied he 
was,” said the Princess to Witold when he took his 
leave. 

“He is too shrewd to show any compromising eager- 
ness.” 

Germaine did not retire on reaching her chamber, 
for she was certain that Micheline would join her for 
a talk. Indeed, when all were asleep in the house, she 
heard a light tap at her door, and Micheline entered 
noiselessly. 

“Now you must tell me all! Who is the ally of 
whom you spoke to me?” 

“M. Vauvineux.” 

And Germaine told her of the financier's visit, with- 
holding nothing. 

“What does he know about Witold?” interrupted 
Micheline. 

“He did not tell me.” 


MICHELINE 


291 


"Well?" 

"Do you not see that if he finds that Prince Witold 
opposes him, he will explain, and that he will manage 
to find out exactly, with proof in support of his state- 
ments, that which perhaps to-day he only knows by 
hearsay. " 

"Then he must be warned of the war Witold wishes 
to wage against him." 

"Assuredly; that would impel him to defend him- 
self and to ruin him who would bring about his ruin; 
but there is danger in that of which I had not thought, 
and which, upon reflection, seems very serious tome." 

"What danger?" 

"That the Prince will lose favor with your god- 
mother. " 

"Do you call that danger:^" asked Micheline in sur- 
prise. 

"You only think of Prince Witold." 

"And of Jacques!" 

‘Tt is necessary to think as well of your godmother^ s 
fortune which the Prince will defend." 

"For himself, that it may not slip through his fin- 
gers." 

"Whether it be for himself, for the Princess, or 
for you, it is none the less true that he will defend it 
against Vauvineux’ enterprises. M. Vauvineux may 
be the adventurer he says he is ; that may be, we know 
nothing about it; but what we do know is, that after 
a struggle between them, if Vauvineux remains master 
of the field, your godmother's fortune will be endan- 
gered." 


292 


mcHELim 


“What is wealth compared to happiness?” 

“I do not argue that happiness should not be con- 
sidered before wealth, but I do not wish by any im- 
prudence on our part to endanger your godmother’s 
fortune which in reality is yours.” 

“Set Vauvineux upon Witold, and do not let us 
worry about the rest! Let come what may!” 

“That is a maxim suited to your age, but not to 
mine.” 

“You are an avaricious woman!” 

“For you, yes my child, as I would be an intrigu- 
ing woman if necessary, although by nature I am 
neither the one nor the other; you must have seen 
that.” 

“You are a loving woman, that is what I know.” 

When Micheline addressed a tender word to her, 
Germaine lost her self-control at once; but that was 
not the time to yield to such emotions; she must keep 
before her only the difficulties of the present situation, 
and the means to employ by which to surmount 
them. 

“You understand, do you not,” said she, “that if M. 
Vauvineux q^me here to propose to me to become his 
medium, and to influence the Princess, to urge her to 
act in that affair, to me who have so little influence, 
that he has considerable interest in laying his fingers 
on a slice of your godmother’s fortune, and that 
should inspire us with mistrust. You understand too, 
that although he insisted upon having an interview 
with me in order that I might ask the Princess to 
receive him this evening, he only sought a pretext 


MICHELINE 


393 


for gaining me over to his cause, and that should re- 
double our mistrust." 

"I do not say that it is wise to have confidence in 
him, but that is my godmother^ s affair. Yours is to 
urge him to expose Witold; since he knows such ter- 
rible things against Witold, he must serve us." 

"I have told you that for your sake I would be capa- 
ble of becoming an intriguing woman, and I shall be- 
come one. To-morrow, I will go in search of M. Vau- 
vineux. " 

"Dear Mme. Germaine!” exclaimed Micheline, seiz- 
ing her hand. 

"It is for your sake, for I am not very brave. 
When M. Vauvineux knows of Prince Witold's 
threats, he will want to defend himself; and if the 
things which he knows, or which he can learn are as 
grave as he says they are, the Prince will be seriously 
injured. " 

"He will be lost!" 

"Perhaps! If you will have the firmness to say to 
your godmother that you will never marry him." 

"Rest assured, I shall have that firmness." 

"We shall succeed, then; but my task would not be 
accomplished if I only free you from Prince Witold, 
I must at the same time free the Princess from M. 
Vauvineux." 

"How?" 

"By setting M. Vauvineux against Prince Witold; 
at the same time I should like to set Prince Witold 
against M. Vauvineux^ that they might struggle one 
with the other, and during that struggle you might 




MICHEUNE 


escape the one while your godmother’s money would 
escape the other.” 

“That is admirable!” 


IX 


The feeling of responsibility made Germaine more 
resolute. For the first time she really had her child in 
her grasp — her happiness and her fortune — her child 
whom Providence had given back to her at length, 
judging her worth}^ of being a mother. 

If she had not been there, if she did not interfere 
in an active manner, it was probable that the Princess 
would end by imposing Witold on Micheline, or else 
if Witold was exposed by Vauvineux it was probable 
that the financier would obtrude himself; in the case 
in which Witold figured, it would be Micheline who 
would be lost; in the other, it would be the fortune. 

The following morning at nine o’clock she entered 
the offices of V Universelle on the first floor of a house 
on Rue de Grammont, which seemed as respectable 
and imposing as should those of a company which 
counted the names of men of the highest social position 
on its board, and did not wish to be confounded with 
the vulgar agencies in the neighborhood of the Bourse. 

These was nothing savoring of the gaming-house, 
nor of the cut-throat order about V Universelle. 

When Germaine asked for Vauvineux she was told 
that he could not see her at once, and she waited. 
Then as time glided by, she decided to write a short 
note which she requested a boy to take to M. Vau- 

^95 


290 


MICHELINE 


vineux, and almost immediately she was ushered into 
a large office in which was Vauvineux seated at an 
immense desk, the other side of which was occupied 
by his associate, La Parisiere. 

On seeing her enter, Vauvineux rose and approached 
her. 

“ What, dear rnadame, you have taken the trouble to 
come here? I was coming to your house this after- 
noon. “ 

Then turning to La Parisiere, he said: “My dear 
La Parisiere, let me present to you Mme. Germaine 
of whom I have spoken to you.” 

La Parisiere rose and bowed, and Germaine saw a 
veritable monkey’s head, with a low, receding fore- 
head, and a discontented face. 

Somewhat ashamed of the role she had to play, 
Germaine would have preferred being alone with Vau- 
vineux, but she could not draw back, and since she 
must speak before that old ape, she would. 

Vauvineux, who seemed to divine her repugnance to 
his comrade, came to her aid: “To what do we owe 
the honor of this visit? You may speak before my 
friend. La Parisiere, we are one.” 

“I have come to tell you I cannot fill the office ^^ou 
wished to intrust to me.” 

“Why not?” ‘ 

La Parisiere asked no questions, but he raised his 
head with an air which plainly said that he was all 
attention. 

“I should meet with opposition, continued Ger- 


MICHELINE 


297 


maine, “against which I could do nothing. I prefer 
warning you in advance.” 

“Whence would that opposition come?” 

She hesitated a moment. 

“From Prince Witold,” said she at length; “it has 
already come. The Prince returned home yesterday 
with the Princess, and he was present when I said that 
you would like to see the Princess in the evening and 
what your aim was. ” 

Vauvineux made a grimace of dissatisfaction. 

“I was questioned,” added Germaine, “I had to re- 
ply." 

“Oh, I do not blame you, dear madame; moreover, 
I have nothing to conceal from anyone, much less 
from Prince Witold.” 

La Parisi^re then spoke, addressing his gestures to 
Germaine, but looking at Vauvineux: “You deserve 
that, my dear Vauvineux! That is what you get for wish- 
ing to do Princess Sobolewski a good turn. Everyone 
fancies that you wish to drag her to her ruin. If you 
had remained quietly here, as I wanted you to, the 
Princess would have come here to ask — did I say to 
ask? — to implore you to tell her what you had to 
offer. ” 

' What would you have me do?” interrupted Vauvi- 
neux good naturedly. 

“I would have you be wise and more practical. Be- 
cause Princess Sobolewski once did you a favor, it 
seems that you cannot do enough to repay it.” 

"That is true,” 


298 


MJCHELINE 


“You have already done enough, believe me; let the 
matter rest there.” 

Vauvineux made no reply to that friendly counsel, 
but turned to Germaine with a smile: “Upon what does 
the Prince base his opposition?” he asked almost in- 
differently. 

“He has not said; he has simply asked the Princess 
to give you no promise for eight days." 

"Why, eight days?” 

“Because before that time is up, he will strain 
every nerve to prove that she must not put more 
money in your business.” 

"Then it is to be war?” 

“Yes, a desperate one and such a desperate one that 
I am too cowardly to interfere.” 

“We do not ask that of you, madame,” said La 
Parisiere, interrupting once more, “for we renounce 
all relation with Princess Sobolewski; she needs us, 
we do not need her.” 

Germaine made an uneasy movement and she asked 
herself anxiously if he spoke the truth? Had she 
then lost her ally by trying to enlist him more 
strongly? 

They did not speak; Germaine looked from one to 
the other; as their faces betrayed . more anxiety than 
anger, she felt reassured. 

“They shall not blame me again for wishing to 
make the fortunes of others against their will,” said 
Vauvineux. 

“I told 5^ou so,” replied La Parisiere, “if you had 
listened tp me that would not have happened.” 


MICHELINE 


299 


Once again Vauvineux did not reply. It was curi- 
ous to note that one of the two associates seemed 
specially charged to scold the other; but what was 
not less curious to note, were the glances they momen- 
tarily exchanged, like persons who have established a 
silent language for their own use. 

It was to Germaine that Vauvineux replied: “Of 
course, nothing need be changed between us; what 
has been arranged will be carried out to the letter. 
You shall have your shares.” 

“I cannot accept them,” exclaimed Germaine, 
ashamed of that bargain. 

“Why not? You have rendered us a service, and 
we hope it will not be the last.” 

Germaine did not persist in her refusal. There 
would be time to repeat it when they renewed their 
offer which they probably would never do. 

She rose, and Vauvineux conducted her to the door 
with respectful politeness. 

“Good-bye, dear madame, good-bye!” and he closed 
the door with another bow. 

“If we could settle with that Witold?” said La Pa* 
risiere when Vauvineux returned to his chair. 

“What settlement is possible with a man who 
wants all for himself?” 

“The rogue!” 

“He thinks he is on the eve of a marriage with the 
Princess’ adopted daughter, and he is guarding a 
fortune which he considers belongs already to him. No 
settlement is possible. Moreover, that would be to 
destroy the hopes of that lady who is certainly shrewder 


800 


MICHELINE 


than I thought her, and who thinks that it will be war 
to the knife with us with regard to Witold; for she 
does not want him to have the little one.” 

“War, war! It is very venturesome for us! I shall 
prefer some kind of a compromise.” 

“That cannot be. We must either give up or per- 
severe. You know what awaits us if we do not get 
the Princess’ money. Prince Witold, too, has asked 
for eight days in which to expose us; we must there- 
fore take the initiative, and in such a manner that 
before the lapse of three days, we shall have rendered 
it impossible for him to harm us. Besides, we need 
not wage the war ourselves; we will use the Duke de 
Charmont; he must help us; he is the president of 
Witold’s club.” 

“With his fear of scandal, he will not dare to do 
anything. ” 

“It is just the fear of scandal which will decide 
him. He would prefer an exposi at the club rather 
than here. If there were no hold on Prince Witold 
the matter would be different, but there is a hold. For 
some time there has been talk of cheating, of marked 
cards, of telegraphy in which Prince Witold played 
a prominent part, and if the bomb has not yet burst, 
it is because no one has cared to light it.” 

At that moment, a boy entered the room and an- 
nounced the Duke de Charmont. 

“Let us go,” said Vauvineux, “the hour has come.” 

Grumblingly the two men passed into the presi- 
dent’s rooms. 

Having become a business man from necessity, the 


MlCHELim 


301 


duke had lost none of his elegance of manner nor 
politeness. 

The financier had not killed the gentleman; on the 
contrary, it had refined him still more, for he was 
afraid of being confounded with the people in his 
midst. 

“Good-day, gentlemen,” said he graciously. “What 
news? ” 

“There is this news,” said La Parisiere, “that we 
are in danger of being done for!” 

If the duke exaggerated his natural elegance and 
polish. La Parisiere, on the other hand, exaggerated 
his brutality acquired in the business world. 

“What does that mean, gentlemen?” asked the duke, 
haughtily. 

Thereupon Vauvineux assumed his most insinuating 
smile: “Matters must not be presented thus. La 
Parisiere is in too great a hurry. You know that sev- 
eral little irregularities have been committed in the 
constitution of our Company, notably in that which 
concerns certain subscriptions which are qualified as 
fictitious. Trifles merely!” 

“You assured me — ” 

“That we would not allow them to be found out. 
That was what we were working at, and in which we 
were succeeding, in adding to the old capital some 
new from the Princess’ coffers, when Prince Witold 
Sobolewski interfered with our scheme, in order to 
obtain control himself of his sister-in-law’s fortune. 
Well, duke, you must expel the Prince from your 
club. It will be an easy matter with so much against 


m 


MICHEUNE 


him; and it must be done in such a way that he will 
lose all influence over his sister-in-law — which will 
surely happen if he is disgraced, for the Princess is 
too proud a woman to give her adopted daughter to 
a dishonored man. 

“But, gentlemen — " 

“Prince Witold's influence destroyed, we will re- 
gain ours over the Princess, who will give us the 
funds required to efface those irregularities, and in- 
stead of being ‘done for,' as La Parisiere expresses 
it, we can launch our new enterprise feeling assured 
of success — of an astonishing success.” 

“The situation is very simple,” interrupted La Pa- 
risiere hastily, “on one side the law, on the other 
fortune; and you know, if we go to gaol, you will go 
with us. Sir Duke!” 


X 


On leaving Rue de Grammont, Germaine turned her 
steps toward Boulevard Malesherbes, where Witold 
lived. 

She had only accomplished a portion of her task; 
Vauvineux against Witold had been successful, now 
Witold must be against Vauvineux. The difficulty of 
her undertaking was to combine the two plans so as 
to make them coincide without one preceding the 
other. 

Witold had asked for eight days in which to expose 
Vauvineux; the latter certainly would not delay in 
taking up the cudgels against Witold. 

Witold occupied a very fine suite of apartments on 
Boulevard Malesherbes near the Madeleine — a suite 
elegant enough for a man of position in Parisian soci- 
ety. 

Indeed, the furniture belonged to a fashionable up- 
holsterer, who had availed himself largely of the 
publicity of which Witold had to dispose; but that did 
not concern the public who were unaware of that 
arrangement known only to a few. 

The rooms were filled with furniture, hangings, 
marbles, bronzes, pictures, curios, which did honor to 
the taste of him who had chosen them. Germaine, 
who had never visited Witold before, was surprised 

303 


304 


MICHELINE 


at such luxury, and with the simplicity of a person 
who fancies that luxury can only be obtained with 
money she wondered how such fine things could belong 
to a man who lived by his wits. In the drawing-room, 
into which she had been shown, and in which she was 
to wait until Witold should receive her, were two men, 
very vulgar in appearance, with short jackets of 
coarse cloth, felt hats, heavy boots, having the air of 
jockeys. They were speaking English and they did 
not allow her entrance to interrupt their conversation. 
Divining that she was a French woman, they undoubt- 
edly thought that she could not understand them. 

She seated herself at a table and took up a newspaper 
which she began to read, not listening at first to what 
they were saying, though several words forced them- 
selves upon her. It was evidently of Witold they 
were talking, and all that concerned him interested 
her too much for her to turn a deaf ear to their talk. 

One of the men spoke with a decidedly English, 
the other with a French accent. Although she was 
familiar with the English language, there were words 
she did not understand, and which she had never 
heard before. They were either sporting terms or 
slang. 

“What!” said the one who had the air of being an 
Englishman, “when the poor devils, after having 
given me their watches, chains, pins, ear-rings or brace- 
lets as a sort of pledge, in order to obtain a few louis 
with which to meet their engagements, pay me regu- 
larly, you wish me to keep all of your Princess iron- 
mongery until doomsday, for he never redeems any- 


MiCHELlNB 


B05 


thing. No, I have had enough. If all my clients 
Were like him, my house would not be large enough. 

I need my money.” 

“He will soon pay you all that he owes you.” 

“When, soon?” 

“When he is married.” 

“Why does he not marry at once?” 

“Because by making himself more desired, he will 
obtain a larger dowry. Rest assured, he knows his 
own business.” 

“That is just it; I am not assured. I shall end by 
not believing in his marriage; you will see that he 
will slip through our fingers.” 

“There is no danger. Before three months are up 
he will be married and you will be paid. And that is 
not all! As soon as he has the dowry, he will set up 
a stable finer than any in France, and then who will 
make large commissions? my little Rochester.” 

Although Germaine was not au fait with sporting 
matters, she had heard Micheline and Witold speak of 
the races too often not to be familiar with the name 
of Rochester, the most daring, most fortunate of 
book-makers. ” 

So Witold had been reduced to borrowing on pledges 
from that man who had more confidence in the “poor 
devils” who paid him than in the Prince who did not. 
Micheline' s fortune would serve to pay his debts and 
to support a stable. That was truly reassuring. 

“You shall see what business we will do,” contin- 
ued the friend of little Rochester, tapping him on the 
shoulder. “We will outdo them all.” 


20 


306 


MICHELWE 


“Take care that he does not outdo you, my old 
Wocquez, “ said Rochester. “He is a rogue." 

At that moment two upholsterers entered the 
drawing-room, accompanied by a footman, and began 
to take down two of the paintings: Corot’s ''Nymphs^'* 
and Ph. Rousseau’s ''Ayes at Table," 

"Have you brought nothing to take their places?" 
asked the footman. “That will leave a void; it does 
not look well." 

“Our master said the Prince would come and make 
his own choice; you know we cannot miss the chance 
of a sale.” 

“Are these then sold?” 

“They are to be shown." 

"A propos" continued the footman, “the sofa in 
the smoking-room is torn; you must take it away and 
put another in its place." 

Each word was significant to Germaine; she now 
understood whence came that luxury which had so 
greatly surprised her — from the upholsterers of whom 
it was hired. Probably if she had spent several hours 
in that drawing-room, she would have learned many 
other things. But a door opened and Witold appeared, 
escorting a woman, her head enveloped in a thick, 
red veil which hid her face like a mask. He accom- 
panied her to the hall, then returning he approached 
Germaine at once. 

“What! Is it you, madame?” said he in surprise. 
“Has anything serious happened?" 

“I have something to sa3r to you for a moment." 

“I am at 3'our service.” 


MICHELINE 


307 

And turning to the two men, he offered them his 
hand. 

“Good-day, Rochester! Good-day, Wocquez! I will 
be with you shortly.” 

“But I am in a hurry,” said Rochester with his air 
of an English bull-dog, ready to bite and showing his 
fangs. 

“You would not, my dear fellow, like to keep a lady 
waiting?” And without paying any more attention to 
him than if he had been a “poor devil,” Witold en- 
tered his study with Germaine. 

“I fear you have grave news,” said he. 

“It concerns the Princess’ fortune,” replied Ger- 
maine, “and yourself too.” 

“Has she yielded to Vauvineux?” exclaimed Witold. 

“M. Vauvineux has not been to the house.” 

Witold breathed a sigh of relief. 

“But yesterday,” continued Germaine, “there passed 
between him and me matters which it seems to me 
should be known to 3'Ou, and which I should have 
told to the Princess, had I not feared to vex her by 
seeming to interfere in her affairs, which she does not 
like, you know.” 

“What matters?” asked Witold quickly. 

“M. Vauvineux offered me a certain number of 
paid-uj') shares if I should succeed in influencing the 
Princess to invest another large sum in his company. ” 

“The knave ! ” 

“It seemed to me, in fact, that that was not an hon- 
orable proceeding, to which M. Vauvineux would not 
have had recourse had he only cared, as he pretend- 


308 


MICHELINE 


ed, for the Princess’ interest; and I wished to ask 
your advice.” 

“Make yourself easy.” 

“I thought it was urgent and I came to you.” 

“I thank you in the name of Micheline for acting 
so promptly. Vauvineux will obtain nothing, you may 
be sure. That is another service you have rendered 
Micheline, and which shall be added to those you have 
already rendered her. I promise you that we shall 
remember them.” 

It was the first time in seven years that Witold had 
addressed a gracious word to Germaine, whom he had 
always treated with perfect disdain, looking loftily 
down upon her as upon a servant, an inferior being, 
who had no existence for him. Germaine was how- 
ever, in haste to escape from the thanks which made 
her uncomfortable, for she had nothing more to say. 
Witold was warned. She merely added a word: ‘T 
thought there w^as no time to lose.” 

"Assuredly not, and I shall lose none: I have asked 
for eight days, I shall not need them. To-morrow, or 
at the latest the day after to-morrow, Vauvineux 
shall be settled. There will be nothing more to fear.” 

"May I beg of you to say nothing of the part I have 
taken?” she asked. 

"Fear nothing; I will only mention it to Micheline 
— later on — and I hope that that ^later on’ will be 
soon. ” 

Germaine was in haste to return to Micheline, who 
was awaiting her return anxiously; she had nothing 
more to do ; what was to follow was out of her prov- 


MICHELINE 


309 


ince; when the two adversaries, whom she had 
launched one against the other, were about to fall up- 
on each other, and what she had sought to bring about 
seemed on the eve of being realized, she would then 
have fulfilled the office of a mother once in her life — 
she would have saved her daughter, have assured her 
happiness. 

From the garden she saw Micheline at a window; 
she did not dare to make a sign to her, but mounted 
the stairs hastily. 

“Well?” 

She related what she had done, what had been 
said. 

“Witold is lost! “ exclaimed Micheline. 

“And Vauvineux too!” 

“What will take place?” 

“I do not know, but at the moment the bomb bursts 
I do not wish you to be alone, and I think it would 
be wrong if your godmother had no one near her who 
had the right to speak for her, with firmness, with 
authority. ” 

“Some one? Jacques!” 

“Yes!” 

“Ah! Mme. Germaine!” exclaimed Micheline. 

“We must send him a dispatch; he is at Toulon; 
he could be here to-morrow; he must come without 
warning us, without saying that he was summoned.** 

“Let us write the dispatch.” 

“I will take it.” 

The dispatch was written out by Micheline. It was 
somewhat lengthy, not at all in the style of a tele- 


310 


MICHELINE 


gram ; but what did it matter? the chief point was to 
have it clear. 

When Germaine returned from the office, Micheline's 
eyes sparkled, her lips quivered, she rose, and ap- 
proaching Germaine slowly, she said with a gravity 
which was not natural to her — 

“Mme. Germaine, I pray you, answer me in the 
same spirit that I question you.” 

“What is it?” asked Germaine, surprised at that 
emotion. 

“You knew my mother?” 

“My child!” That cry came from the depths of Ger- 
maine’s heart, but she conquered her weakness at 
once. 

“Why do you ask me that?” said she. 

“Because, as kind-hearted as you are, you could 
not have done for a pupil who was only a pupil, 
what you have done for me. If I did not thank you 
at once it was because joy transported me. In your 
absence, I reflected, I felt that you had been to me 
as you have these eight years, that you had done for 
me what you have, because you knew my mother, be- 
cause you loved her, because she sent you to be 
near me. Oh, I have not thought of it just to-day, I 
have wished to speak of it to you many times; but 
now I can no longer maintain silence, nor can you ! I 
beseech you, tell me of my mother!” 

Germaine thought she had already experienced the 
deepest emotion which could possess her soul, but 
she had not; would she weaken? Should she open her 
arms? What bliss! 


MICHELINE 


311 


But it was not of herself she had to think, it was of 
her child. Only one more sacrifice remained to be 
made for her. She would make it. 

"No, my child, no, I did not know your mother. 
I needed not to have anyone bid me love you. You 
can see, you can feel how I love you! " 

A servant, opening the door, announced that the 
Princess was awaiting them at lunch. 


XI 


In the afternoon Witold called at the Princess’ man- 
sion, for he figured as a betrothed and came daily to 
call upon Micheline. 

For the first time he was received almost gracious- 
ly. Micheline wished to be politic and at the same 
time she took a mischievous delight in being agreea- 
ble to the man whom she no longer feared and whom 
she despised. She laughed secretly to see his satis- 
fied air: the awakening would be so much ruder. 

At a certain moment, he approached Germaine who 
was working in a corner of the drawing-room, and he, 
who had never addressed a word to her, bent over her 
shoulder to examine her embroidery. 

“What you are making is very pretty,” said he in a 
loud voice, “very pretty.” Then he added in a whis- 
per: “The match is lighted; it burns; the mine will 
explode.” 

The Princess in surprise watched him. 

“See how amiable happiness makes Witold,” said 
she to Micheline. “He is talking to Mme. Germaine.” 

“He will be charming,” she replied with a smile, 
adding in a lower tone, “If his life is spared.” 

“What did you say?” 

“Nothing, godmother ” 

He had come to accompany them to the Bois, where 
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What! are you here?” exclaimed the Princess. — y/^. 









MICHELINE 


813 


he liked to exhibit himself as the betrothed of 
Micheline, Princess Sobolewski’s heiress. 

Germaine remained at home alone. 

About four o’clock Vauvineux’s card was brought 
to her, and she went downstairs quickly, anxious to 
know what he had to say. Would he allow Witold to 
get ahead of him? At his first words she was reas- 
sured. 

"It is begun," said he, jestingly, “we need not 
stir." 

But when she had repeated to him Witold’s 
words, he ceased laughing. 

"What does the Princess say?" he asked, thinking 
those words had been addressed to her. 

Nothing; you know that the Princess has perfect 
confidence in you." 

"I hope so, indeed; it would be very strange were 
it otherwise. I beg of you to tell the Princess that 
I came to see her, and above all to speak to her be- 
fore the Prince." 

Germaine and Micheline were anxious that Jacques 
should arrive before the bomb burst, for Witold 
would, no doubt, defend himself; there would be a 
desperate struggle, and the Princess should have some 
one near her with a strong arm upon which she could 
lean. 

They had consulted the guide books, and had found 
that, everything being favorable, he could not reach 
the hotel before the following evening at six o’clock. 
Would he not be too late? 

As it was probable that Micheline would not be 


B14 


MICHELINE 


able to exchange a word alone with him she v/ished to 
write to him to inform him of how things stood, and 
to explain to him what she expected, what he should 
say and do. But the writing of that letter did not 
occupy the entire day, and many long hours re- 
mained. 

Would Witold arrive before Jacques? Momentarily 
she exchanged anxious glances with Germaine, who 
was as uneasy as she was herself. 

Witold, contrary to his custom since their return 
to Paris, did not put in an appearance during the day, 
neither did Vauvineux. 

At length at six-thirty, the bell rang, and almost 
immediately afterward a servant opened the door and 
announced; “M. Jacques Hebertot.” 

“What! Are you here?” exclaimed the Princess. 

After having kissed his aunt, shaken hands with 
Micheline, who slipped her note between his fingers, 
and bowed to Germaine, he explained his sudden ar- 
rival. He had several days* leave of absence; he had 
come to spend them in Paris. 

“Go and dress yourself,” said the Princess, “and 
come down as quickly as you can to dinner; you must 
accompany us to the opera.” 

Micheline* s letter burned Jacques* fingers; he ran 
up to his room. He would now find out what Michel- 
ine wanted with him. 

“Before the lapse of two months, we shall be mar- 
ried, my dear Jacques,” and she explained how it was 
to be brought about. 

If on entering the drawing-room, his first glance 


MICHELINE 


315 


was for Micheline, his second was directed toward 
Germaine, who interpreted it more as a silent compact 
than as an expression of gratitude; ke would not be 
against her; he would allow her to love Micheline. 

After dinner, the Princess, Micheline and Jacques 
left for the opera, where they arrived as the second 
act of “Faust” began. 

Happy to be near Jacques, Micheline took her usual 
place in the front of the box, but turned toward him 
to converse with him, while the Princess, who had no 
anxious fears, glanced at the audience. 

It seemed to her that all the opera-glasses in the 
house were turned upon their box; she leaned toward 
Micheline saying: “You must be very beautiful to- 
night; everyone is looking at you.” 

Those words recalled Micheline to herself, and in her 
turn she glanced around the hall. It was true, all eyes 
were directed toward their box; she noticed too that 
people talked as they examined them. What was 
the cause? She was not vain enough to think that she 
was the attraction. 

She made a sign to Jacques who understood it; 
evidently something had happened. But what? 

During the entr’ act Jacques went out. 

“Do not stay long,” said Micheline, who feared that 
Witold would appear at any moment. 

The door of the box had scarcely closed when it re- 
opened. Micheline thought the new comer was Wit- 
old. But she was mistaken. It was an old friend of 
her godmother’s, a doctor who had been a comrade 
of Beaiimoiissel’s. 


316 


MICHELINE 


As the Princess received him with a smile, he 
said: “I see that you do not know what has hap- 
pened. ” 

“I know nothing. Speak.” 

“Well, my poor friend, the police to-day made a 
raid on the offices of Z' Universelle\ — the seals have 
been affixed; Vauvineux and La Parisiere have been 
arrested. ” 

“Poor Vauvineux!” said the Princess. 

“Are you not interested in the business?” 

“Not for any large sum, fortunately. Of what is 
Vauvineux accused?” 

“Of swindling.” 

“And the Dukes of Charmont and Mestosa?” 

“They were Vauvineux’ dupes.” 

“That is then the reason why everyone is staring at 
us so,” said the Princess. “It seems to me, however, 
I cannot be the only victim of Z’ Universelle, ” 

At the old doctor’s first words, Micheline had 
hoped for more encouraging news: indeed Vauvineux 
did not interest her as much as Witold’s enemy. 

She was very anxious. 

Fortunately Jacques, who soon returned, gave her a 
reassuring glance. The doctor withdrew. Jacques 
leaned toward his aunt and said in a low voice: “If 
you will, we had better return home.” 

“Why?” 

“Something very serious has happened, and it would 
be better to escape the eyes of the curious.” 

“A loss of three hundred thousand francs is not so 
grave a matter; you see, I can bear it?” 


MICHELINE 


817 


Micheline interfered. 

"Godmother has just heard that M. Vauvineux is 
arrested. ” 

"It is not to Vauvineux that I was alluding," said 
he quickly, "but to Prince Witold. Come, aunt, let 
us go." 

"Witold! You frighten mei " 

"In the carriage I will tell you all." 

The third act was just beginning. 

‘Twill obtain a cab," said Jacques, "then I will re- 
turn for you. " 

Indeed he was only gone a few moments; when 
they descended the staircase they met no one; every 
one had returned to the auditorium. 

"Well! what is it?" asked the Princess as soon as 
the cab in which they were seated rolled along. 

"It is a great sorrow for you, aunt." 

"Witold has killed himself!" exclaimed the Prin- 
cess, who since Casimir’s death, thought only of 
tragical accidents. 

"No — unfortunately! " 

"Unfortunately? " 

"Unfortunately for you, aunt. An old comrade of 
mine, who saw the Prince’s terrible adventure with 
his own eyes, told it to me. For some time he has 
been suspected of being associated with one of those 
strangers, such as there are in Paris, who live by 
cheating at cards — " 

"Witold!" 

"To-day they brought the affair to light. The 
Duke de Charmont, who is the president of the club, 


318 


MICHELINE 


called together the members. They played quinze. 
All eyes were upon Witold’s friend, and at the 
certain point, the Duke de Charmont stopped the 
game. They were using marked cards. Whence 
came they? An examination was made, and it turned 
out that those cards had been marked by one of the 
club-servants at the instigation of — Prince Witold.” 

“It is impossible!” exclaimed the Princess. 

“It was proven.” 

A pause ensued. Suddenly the Princess, encircling 
Micheline with her arm, drew her toward her. 

“Oh, my poor child,” she gasped, “m}?- poor child!” 

Micheline kissed her tenderly. 

‘Tt is you who are to be pitied,” said she, “you, who 
put so much faith in him.” 

“But you, you?” 

“I? what does it matter?” 

The moment was auspicious; Micheline took advan- 
tage of it. 

“I could not love him, since I loved another.” 

And she extended both hands to Jacques. 

“Certainly, aunt, I should have preferred to ask for 
Micheline’s hand under other circumstances,” said 
Jacques, “but since she has spoken — ” 

“Ah, be silent,” cried the Princess, “be silent, both 
of you! It is not right!” 

Early the next morning, the Princess sent for 
Jacques, who found her seated at a desk with a 
cheque-book before her. 

“Go to Witold’s apartments, give him the envelope 
in which there is a cheque. Tell him to make no 


MICHELINE 


319 


attempt to see me again; he will not be received. If 
he will go to London, Vienna or America, I will give 
him an annuity. If he wishes to argue, to defend 
himself, speak to him authoritatively, as my nephew, 
as the head of my family, as my daughter’s betrothed.” 

“Oh, aunt — ” 

"Go! Do not speak to me, do not thank me; I can- 
not bear it.” 

Before setting out, Jacques had time to say a few 
words to Micheline, who, as soon as the gate had 
closed behind her lover, sought Germaine’s room. 

“Godmother has consented.” 

She had expected an outburst of joy; instead she 
saw the tears fill Germaine’s eyes. 

“You are weeping?” 

“Do not think that I am not happy, my child. I 
am, I assure you, but I cannot think of being sepa- 
rated from you without pain.” 

And the tears she had suppressed gushed forth 
irresistibly. 

A pause ensued. Suddenly Micheline took her hand. 
“Yesterday you would give me no answer, but yester- 
day I was only a child, to-day I am a woman.” 

She drew nearer her, she looked into her eyes, and 
said in a trembling voice: “You are my mother!” 

“My child! My child!” 

For some time they remained silently locked in 
each other’s arms. 

Micheline was the first to regain her self-control. 
“Tell me all — my father?” 

“Oh — be silent!” exclaimed Germaine in affright. 


S20 


MICHELINE 


In the study there was a portrait of Casimir, as 
there was in each of the principal rooms in the house. 
Micheline, taking Germaine gently by the hand, led 
her to that picture. 

“There is no mistaking those blue eyes, those feat- 
ures, that fair hair, that resemblance— it is he!” 

Germaine fell upon her daughter's shoulder and hid 
her face. 

“Regina knew, then, ” murmured Micheline. 

“I will tell you all. But the Princess must never 
know that I have confessed to you that I am your 
mother ! ” 

“The Princess! Oh! the poor dear woman!” 


THE END. 



M'cheline taking Germaine gently by the hand lec he/ \o that 
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WAS IT THE WOMAN’S FAULT? 


12mo, 401 Pages. Paper Cover. 


open book of the human hearty disclosing ivith delicate pathos the joys and 
pains of impetuous passion, with a vein of mystery pe7vadhig its pages, 
involvUig plots , coimterplots a7td tJuilling adveiitm'es of absorbi7ig hiterest, 

Entra7tced with the intense 7'cal7tess of the sto7y , you see77t 7tot to be 7'eadLng 
words of deiC7'iptio7i, but to be actually observi7ig the passionate scenes depicted by 
the author. 

A veil see77is to be lifted betweeyi you a7td the characters of the story, a7id you 
see, and feel, and k7tow the77i as livUtg se7itient souls, th7'obbi7i^ with the passion- 
fever of human life. 

A case of double consciousness — “ The strangest case knowri to 77iedicinef or 
to hypnotism . 


I For sale by all Booksellers and Newsdealers, or will be sent by the 
Publishers on receipt of Price. 

I 

I 

j DONOHUE, HENNEBER.RY & CO., Eut>listi©rs, 

407 to 425 Dearborn Street, CHICAGO. 


JONEL FORTUNAT 


An admirable translation of the great German novelist’s latest 
masterpiece of fiction. 

12mo, 407 Pages, Illustrated. Paper Cover, 


T he hero of the story, Jonel Fortunat, is a graud ideal of noble and 
exalted young manhood. 

Surrounded by all the allurements of a world of wealth and pleasure, 
with ample opportunities to enjoy the sensualities of life, he denies himself 
their indulgence and remains true to himself and to principio. 

His noble efforts in behalf of the oppressed people, even against his own 
worldly interests and those of his rich relations, the xmi 'ly in which he 
resists the wiles and temptations ot beautiful but too Jiatc women and 

remains true to his affection for the pure and true in womanhood, constitute 
one of the grandest conceptions of character in all the range of fiction. 

It is indeed a great novel, and is full of wholesome life lessons for men 
and women. 

For sale by all Booksellers and Newsdealers, or will be sent by the 
Publishers on receipt of Price. 


9 “ 

DONOHUK, HENNKBKRRY & CO., Btablistiers, 
407 to 425 Dearborn Street, CHICAGtO* 





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